Gold Dust
by EmmaFoxglove
Summary: Midas Leeford is trying his best to make it in the world of finance, but fate seems to be holding him back. Then he is given the opportunity of a lifetime, only to find out that some dreams aren't worth chasing after. A retelling of the ancient story of King Midas, set in bustling Victorian England.
1. Chapter 1

One

The sun swept over the spires and steeples of the city, casting its golden shimmer on the dirty window panes and stagnant puddles of greasy water. The rumble of a million feet—both man and beast—shook the pavement like a pulse beneath London's skin.

Soaring above the crowd, pale and immovable, rose the mighty pillars of the Bank. Men scurried like mice in it's shadow, their dark coats specks of black against the light colored stone.

One was headed away from the massive building, his head low as he bulled his way through the press of people trying to get home for the evening. Hailing a hansom cab, he climbed in and leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes. Images of bank notes floated up behind his eyelids, hundreds and hundred of them.

He was a fashionable man, though not extravagant like the dandies he'd viewed from his office that afternoon. His clothes were dark and sensible, perfectly tailored to fit his tall frame. He wore a beard tidily trimmed and the only items of ornamentation about him were the gold chain connected to the watch in his pocket and the gilded head of his cane.

The hansom rolled up to the house a quarter past six. It was a fine looking brick building with a dark red door, intimately close to it's neighbors on either side. After paying the driver, the man exited the cab and went up to the house, taking the steps two at a time.

A footman met him inside the door, taking his hat and coat. A staircase wrapped around the side of the entryway, leading up to the gallery of the first floor. The sound of running feet could be heard from up there, and within moments a small blond head appeared over the railing, two blue eyes magnified by the spectacles in front of them.

"Daddy!" cried the little girl, rushing down the stairs.

"There she is!" said the man, walking forward to meet her. He picked her up and swung her around, making her laugh.

"I've got something for you," she said when he placed her back on the floor. She held out a fistfull of yelow daffodils and buttercups, just slightly wilted from being clenched by the warm little hand of their mistress.

"Oh darling, they're lovely." He bent down and sniffed the flowers. "They smell good too."

"Aren't they nice? They look like they're made out of gold."

"Too bad they aren't. Then they'd be even more beautiful," he said, rising to his feet again. He took her hand and they walked further into the house.

"I don't think they'd be more beautiful if they were gold," said the little girl.

"Oh?"

"If they were gold, then they wouldn't smell nice."

"Well no," said her father. "But really Marigold, there are many flowers in the world that smell nice, but there aren't many that are made of gold. And gold flowers never die."

Marigold seemed to consider that. "I suppose. But I still like them, even if they aren't gold."

"I do too," he said, stroking her hair.

"Is that you, Midas?" called a voice from the drawing room.

"It is," said the man. He and Marigold walked into the room where a woman was sitting doing needlework. Pausing her work, she smiled at them.

"Marigold has been waiting to give you those all day. She'd better go put them in water though, before they start dying."

Taking the hint, the little girl rushed down to the kitchen, calling for the butler to give her a vase.

Midas sank into an armchair.

"How was your day, my love?" asked his wife. Lillian Leeford was as fine a woman as any in England. She had a good figure, average height, and a face that struck envy in the hearts of women ten years her junior. Beyond that though, she was a kind woman with good, strong commonsense.

Her husband told her about his day, about bonds and loans and the money matters of Britain. He had a good position at the Bank, and knew the ins and outs of that world better than most men knew the house they lived in.

"Someday, my love," he said. "We are going to make it. I'll be out of my little dingy office and running the greatest financial institution in the Empire."

His wife listened to him, her needle going in and out of the cloth in her lap."I don't think your office is dingy," she said.

"You've never seen Baring's office, then. I'm going to be a director, Lil."

"I know you are. You'll be wonderful." Lillian secured her needle and put her work aside. "Midas, about Gregory . . ."

"What happened?"

"There was another explosion today. Simmons can't take much more."

Midas sighed. His brother was an eccentric, brilliant, young man who spent far too much time poking through old books. At fifteen he'd stumbled upon an old alchemist text and had been obsessed with the archaic sciences ever since. Now he spent most of his time down in the cellar trying to turn lead into gold.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked. "Talk to him? Tell him he's mad? I've done that, Lil."

"Midas, this isn't healthy. He keeps himself locked up in that room, breathing in those vapors all day. He can't keep this up."

"I know my brother. Discouraging him doesn't work, it just makes him more determined. Let him alone, Lil, eventually he'll give up on his own. Simmons will just have to be patient like the rest of us. Besides, if he manages to start turning things into gold we'll be able to start making him pay Simmons rent for taking over his cellar."

"I don't think it's very funny."

"I wasn't joking. If anybody could manage turning lead into gold it'd be Greg."

"As you say, darling," Lillian said, choosing to let it rest for now.

Midas picked up a newspaper and flipped to the finance pages. Marigold came back to sit with them, holding her vase of flowers. She placed them on the side table next to her father. Kneeling beside his chair, she played on the floor with her dolls. Lillian watched her family, smiling to herself. Father and daughter looked so alike with their tall, distinguished builds and their big blue eyes. Only their hair was different; Midas's was dark and beginning to gray near the temples, while her's was honey-gold.

The butler, Mr. Simmons, came to tell them dinner was ready.

* * *

"I'm almost there, I can feel it."

They were all seated around the dining room table, listening to Gregory talk about his experiments. His face was smudged with soot, and his dark hair needed combed. His clothes looked like they'd been slept in.

"How do you know?" asked Midas.

"I just do."

Behind them, standing against the wall, Simmons made a disgruntled noise. Ignoring him, Midas took another helping of vegetables.

"Well let me know if anything happens. I'm could always use a few extra guineas in my pocket."

"If things keep up at this rate you'll have a lot more than a few extra guineas."

"If things keep up at this rate I won't have a house. What are you doing down there all day? Shooting off fireworks?"

Gregory looked abashed. "It was just a little sulfur. Just enough to make a noise, nothing too dangerous."

"Greg!" exclaimed Lillian. "You have got to be more careful!"

"It was intentional, Lil. I had everything under control."

"Don't blow anything else up, Greg," said Midas.

"Why are you trying to make gold?" asked Marigold. Her parents glanced over at her in disapproval. They allowed their daughter to eat with them instead of in the nursery, but under the condition that she mind her manners. Children should be seen and not heard.

Gregory didn't mind. "Because I'm going to make us rich, sweetling."

"Are we poor?" she wondered, looking at her mother.

"No dearest, we aren't poor,"

"Then why do we need more money?"

"Because," answered Midas. "If we had more money we could do more of the things we wanted. I could take your mama out to restaurants and to the theatre every evening, and we could have a house in the country, and we could get you a little pony to ride. Money helps a person get further along in life, that's why Uncle Gregory is doing this." Midas smiled at his daughter, trying to hide his doubts about Greg's mission.

"I'd like a pony."

"All right, gentlemen, enough about money," said Lillian. "Marigold, if you don't finish your food there won't be any dessert."

Marigold screwed up her face and poked at her carrots in disgust.

After dinner the family parted ways for the night, Greg going back to his cellar as the rest of the family went up to the first floor. Midas dropped his daughter off in the care of the nursery maid, giving her a goodnight kiss on the forehead. Then he went to his own bedroom.

"I wish you wouldn't talk about money to Marigold, Midas. She takes these things too seriously," Lillian told him when he came in.

"Gold makes the world go round. The sooner she figures that out the better off she'll be."

"There are more important things in the world than gold, my love."

Midas turned to look at her. She was sitting at her vanity mirror, hair loose and curling around her shoulders. He frowned at her.

"You sound like my father. He'd always be saying that and then go out and ruin us with his extravagance. But that didn't matter because 'gold isn't everything.' Soon enough I had to leave school and try to get employment or we would have lost our home. I kept us out of the poorhouse. So don't tell me to that gold isn't everything because we'd be nothing without it."

Lillian watched him, her face expressionless. "I didn't mean to offend you," she said.

Midas was a little ashamed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been so harsh."

"Don't be sorry. Good night." And with that, she blew out the candles next to her, casting the room into darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Forgot to mention it in the last chapter, but some of the inspiration for this story came from the 1943 broadcast of _Let's Pretend: King Midas and the Golden Touch._ I do not own any of _Let's Pretend_ _'s_ episodes, any more than I own any ancient Grecian myths.

* * *

TWO

There was a door in the Bank of England with the words "Department of Loans" painted on it with gold lettering.

Behind that door was a maze of desks and offices. It was in one of those offices that Midas Leeford spent most of his days poring over legal statements and negotiating mortgages with clients. His office had a single window that overlooked an alleyway. On bright days around one o'clock the sun would manage to stream through the window for an hour or so, it's rays reminding Midas of a stream of molten gold.

Except for those rare moments when the sun would break through the London smog, the room was dim enough that the gas lamps would always have to be lit, even in the middle of the day.

It was on one of these rare, sunlit occasions that a man came into Midas' office.

"Sir," said Midas, rising to his feet. The man in front of him was in his sixties, balding, with a fine set of white mutton chops. His name was Jameson, and he was head of the Loans department.

"Sit down, Leeford." he said, waving off Midas' formality. "I've something to tell you."

Mr. Jameson sat down across from Midas and folded his hands across his stomach. "As I'm sure you've heard, I'm planning to retire by the end of the year."

Midas acknowledged that he had indeed heard that.

"The board of directors is looking for a replacement. I've decided to give them your name as a possible option."

"Why, sir, I- I thank you."

"I've also mentioned Dexter Thompson to them. You two are the best in the department. I have little say in the matter beyond recommendations though. It's up to the board to decide. I've come to tell you though so you can be sure to work doubly hard in the upcoming season. Let them see that you're up to it, my man."

"I most certainly will. Thank you very much, sir."

"Don't mention it. I do it for the department's sake, not just your's. You'd make a fine manager, Leeford." Mr. Jameson rose to his feet and started for the door. "Prove your worth to the directors, and hopefully they'll make the right choice."

Left alone, Midas covered his grin with his hand and tried to compose himself. All these years of ladder climbing were finally paying off. He'd be overseeing an entire department of the Bank of England. There was little in life he wanted more.

He stayed late that evening, making sure that all of his papers were in order. He couldn't risk making a single oversight.

When he arrived at home Marigold was just coming in from the back garden. He picked her up and spun her around, kissing her on the cheek. She squealed in delight. "Why are you late?" she wondered as they walked through the house together.

"I had to finish a few extra papers my love. Where's your mama?"

They found her in the drawing room again, reading a novel. Striding over to her, Midas scooped her up off the settee and swung her around in his arms, just like he had his daughter. Lillian cried out in alarm, clutching his jacket. "Midas! Heavens, put me down!"

Her husband laughed and gently placed her back on the floor. Taking her face in his hands, he kissed her. Lillian pulled back, breathless and blushing, her eyes flitting toward their daughter. Marigold was staring at her parents with wide eyes.

"What has gotten into you?" Lillian asked, eyeing him like he'd lost his mind.

"You'll never believe what happened this afternoon." He told her about Jameson's visit.

"That's wonderful darling," she said, smiling up at him. Marigold giggled and skipped around the room,

"We're going to be rich!" she squealed. She pulled up short. "Does this mean I can get a pony, Daddy?"

"Once I become a manager you can get _two_ ponies, my dove."

"Once we get a country house you mean," Lillian corrected, raising her eyebrow.

Midas chuckled. "Well yes, I suppose Mama's right. We'll have to get a place to put it."

"We can keep them in the garden," said Marigold, hanging onto her father's sleeve. 'Please? The ponies could stay in the shed."

"I'm afraid the garden isn't big enough for ponies, Marigold. Besides, they'd eat all your flowers."

Disappointed, Marigold finally conceded to waiting until they had a country house. Her flowers were too precious to sacrifice, even to have a pony.

That evening, Midas and his wife were in their bedroom. "Do you think you'll really get the promotion?" she asked him.

"I don't see why not. Thompson is hardly worthy competition. He's never gone out of his way to do more work than needed doing. The directors must know how I've slaved for them all these years. I deserve this."

" I know you do. I just don't want you to be disappointed."

Midas looked over at her. "You don't believe I'll get it?"

"I didn't say that. I suppose I just don't have much faith in the directors. You should have been promoted years ago and they didn't do anything."

"I'm going to do this, Lil." He said obstinately. Lillian gave him a little smile.

"I have faith in you,"

* * *

When Lillian woke up the next morning, Midas was already gone. She dressed and went downstairs.

"Simmons," she asked the butler. "Have you seen Mr Leeford this morning?"

"He left for work half an hour ago, ma'am."

"Oh," Lillian was surprised. Midas had never been an early riser. "Is Marigold awake yet?"

"She's in the garden, ma'am," Simmons said stiffly.

Lillian repressed the urge to roll her eyes. Poor Simmons had to suffer much in the Leeford household, whether it be madmen in the cellar or a little girl who loved digging in the dirt with her bare hands, sometimes plucking up a wriggling earthworm to show them. Simmons desired dignity above every other virtue, and Lillian had to admit that dignity was somewhat lacking in her home.

"I'll take some tea and toast in the breakfast room," she told him. He bowed.

The sunlit breakfast parlor had four large window that overlooked the back garden. Lillian could just see the top of her daughter's head through the hedges. It was early spring and the first flowers were in bloom. The narrow walkways were lined with daffodils and hyacinths and the tulips buds were beginning to form.

Marigold brought her in a fistful of flowers, which her mother placed in a jar of water on the small, round table she was sitting at.

"Thank you, darling," she said, wiping a smudge of dirt off her daughter's cheek. Marigold's eye-glasses were slightly askew and Lillian smoothed them back into place. The little girl grinned at her. She'd lost another tooth, so her smile had a gap in it. Somehow that made her seem even more precious. Lillian watched as Marigold skipped away, blond ringlets bouncing. She remembered when Midas used to be like that, buoyant and carefree, his smile as bright and cheerful as their daughter's. Lillian sighed. It'd been a long time since she'd seen her husband that happy.

Her novel was laying on the table where she'd left it the day before. She picked it up and flipped to where she'd left off, glancing up every once in awhile to check on her daughter.

She was just starting on the third page when she heard the sound of running feet on the gravel walk. She looked up to see Marigold racing up the path toward the house, her eyes wide. Lillian set her book aside and rose to her feet.

"What is it?" she asked once Marigold had come into the room.

"There's a man under the bush!" cried Marigold, her voice breathless.

"What?" asked her mother in alarm.

"Under the bush by the shed," said Marigold, pointing to the small garden shed in the back corner of the yard. "There's a man sleeping there."

Lillian took her daughter by the hand and hurried into the hallway outside the breakfast parlor.

"You there," she said to a passing footman. "Find Simmons and tell him to come here at once." The young man bowed and hurried to do what he was told.

"Mama?" asked Marigold. Behind her spectacles, her blue eyes were like saucers.

"It's all right, dearest," said Lillian. Mr Simmons was walking up to them at that moment.

"Ma'am?"

"Tell him what you saw, Marigold."

Marigold told him about the man under the bush. Simmons raised an eyebrow.

"What should we do?" Lillian asked him. "Should we call the police?"

Simmons cleared his throat. "Well, that seems a bit much, Mrs. Leeford. Let me and the boys handle it. It's probably naught more than some riffraff sleeping off to much wine. We'll drive him off."

"Drive who off?" Gregory had been walking past them at that moment in search of his own breakfast. He looked groggy and bedraggled but the words seemed to peak his interest.

"The man under the bush," piped up Marigold.

"Which bush?"

"Really, Greg," said Lillian. "It's nothing to worry about."

But Gregory insisted on helping them drive off the ruffian. Together with Simmons, two footmen and the valet Mr Runnels, the group went outside to investigate the matter. Lillian and Marigold watched from an upper story window.

They went behind the garden shed, disappearing from sight for several minutes. While they were gone, the two heard the front door open and close with a bang, and the sound of someone on the stairs.

"Who could that be?" Lillian wondered, her forehead creasing.

"Lil?" It was Midas' voice, echoing through the high-ceilinged rooms.

"Daddy!" cried Marigold, racing toward the sound of his voice. Soon father and daughter were coming into the room.

"You're home early," said Lillian.

"I forgot some papers here this morning," he explained.

"There's a man under the bush!" said Marigold excitedly, dancing around her father.

"What?" he asked. Lillian explained the situation.

Midas frowned. "I'd better go see about it."

"Really, darling, I don't think you need to worry about it. The others will make him go away."

"Still, it's my house Lillian. It's my daughter who was at risk. I'll see to it." Midas put his hat back on and left them.

He could hear the voices as he made his way to the back of the garden. They seemed to be arguing about something.

"I tell you it's him!"

"I don't care if he's the Prince of Wales, he's got no business here."

Midas rounded the corner of the garden shed. The others were standing in a semicircle around a figure lying flat on his back, half hidden beneath a shrub.

"Sir," The servants bowed when they saw him, and Greg looked mildly surprised.

"Lookee what we found." he said, pointing to the prostrate figure. He was a handsome young man, rather small, with dark hair and fine clothes. His hat lay near him, and his vest was made of bright purple silk with grapes embroidered into it. Midas though he looked rather familiar.

"It's Silenus Beauregard. He's some fine mate from Yorkshire come down to London for the season. I've seen him in the papers." said Runnels the valet. That explained it. Midas has seen his picture as well, though how he had come to be in his yard was still a mystery..

"We tried to drive him off, sir," explained Simmons. "But he's drunk as anything and won't wake up."

"We don't need to drive him off," said Midas, a thought suddenly occurring to him. "Carry him inside and put him in the guest room. And send a note to whoever he's staying with and tell them where he is. No doubt they've been looking for him."

They obeyed, though their surprise was obvious.

Lillian met him in the foyer, her confusion plain on her face. "What's going on?"

"The young man's a gentleman. He's unwell and will be staying here until his friends are able to come for him."

She frowned at him. "Who is he, Midas?"

"His name is Silenus Beauregard. He has all sorts of connections in Industry and Parliament; a most advantageous coincidence that he fell over under our shrubbery rather than the Mortmans' next door."

"You are keeping a drunken stranger in our guestroom because you think it'll help you at work?" she exclaimed, horror and irritation coloring her tone.

Midas shrugged on his coat. He needed to get back to the bank. "I'm helping a man in need."

"A rich man in need," she hinted.

"Yes, a rich, connected, influential young man who needed me."

"He passed out in our garden. Your nine year old daughter found him there. Do you think I want this creature in my home?"

Midas walked up to her and kissed her cheek. She glared at him. "He won't be any trouble. One of the footmen is keeping an eye on him, and I've sent a letter to his relations. They should be here soon to pick him up. Don't worry about it, Lil." He gave her another kiss and rushed out the door.

When Midas arrived home that evening he fully expected the young man to be gone. He was therefore a bit confounded to see him sitting at the family dinner table.

Silenus Beauregard seemed to be completely recovered. He sat next to Gregory and was in the middle of telling a wild story of his adventures in Prague when Midas walked into the room. Marigold greeted her father and their guest rose to his feet, extending his hand.

"My dear sir, so glad I get to make your acquaintance." Midas took his hand and was surprised at the other man's grip and wild enthusiasm. When Silenus finally let go, Midas had to flex his fingers to get some feeling back into them.

Most of the dinner was spent listening to their guest. He was an interesting fellow, full of tales of travel and wild parties. Midas and Lillian were a little leery of these stories, shooting glances toward their daughter who gazed at the strange little man in wonder. When the tales began to become a bit too debaucherous, Lillian had Simmons call in the nursery maid to fetch Marigold.

"So you're an alchemist?" Beauregard said, turning to Gregory. Greg was unused to people knowing about his hobbies, and was a bit bashful. He just nodded his head.

"Have you managed to turn lead into gold yet?"

Turning pink, Greg shook his head. Silenus was disappointed.

"Would you mind showing me some of your work? I've always found magic very intriguing."

Gregory sputtered at that. "Alchemy is science, not magic. Magic is imaginary."

"Some would say that Alchemy is imaginary as well." said Silenus. "But I happen to believe in both of them. But I apologize if I've offended you, my good man."

"Why don't you show Mr. Beauregard your workshop?" Midas said. He was getting weary of his guest and would be happy to be rid of him.

"Workshop?" Silenus grinned at that, though Greg looked rather pained.

"It's not a real workshop," Greg muttered. "It's only a room in the cellar. Nothing very interesting."

"Oh, but that is interesting. Cellars are a bit like dungeons I've always thought. They have a nice atmosphere."

"I believe you've read a bit too many novels, sir," said Lillian, smiling. "Real cellars are not half so interesting as ones in books."

"You must read all the good novels then, the ones with madmen in dungeons and castles full of vampires. Ah, I see it in your eyes, madam. You've never wasted your time on a dull book." He turned his head a bit and winked at her. Lillian turned bright pink and her hands fluttered in her lap. Midas narrowed his eyes at the young man, wishing more with every second that he'd just run him out of the garden.

The two younger men went down to the cellar after that, Greg looking forlornly over his shoulder at them as he left the room. Alone at last, Midas looked over at his wife, his expression exasperated.

"What have I done?' he asked. To his surprise, she giggled.

"I kind of like him."

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you mad? He's nothing but a playboy. From the sound of it he's never done anything worthwhile in his life. I'd wager this is the first time he's been sober in years."

"Not entirely," she said, raising her own glass of wine. The one in front of Beauregard's seat was empty.

"Why is he still here?" asked her husband. "His friends should have come and got him hours ago. Or he should have gone on his own, he's plenty recovered enough. What's the matter with him?"

"Maybe he likes us," said Lillian. She rose from her chair.

"Why? We're not interesting."

Lillian exclaimed at that. "Maybe _you_ aren't."

"Well he certainly thinks you are," Midas mumbled, taking her arm.

She gave him a look. "Midas, are you jealous? What, do you really think I'll run off with that silly little man?"

"It's not you I'm worried about. He's too free with you. You're my wife for God's sake."

"Midas," she sighed and shook her head. "Darling, you have nothing to worry about."


	3. Chapter 3

Three

Silenus Beauregard didn't go away.

It had been ten days and still the strange little man showed no apparent desire to leave the Leefords' house. He seemed to have taken up residence in the spare bedroom on the second floor, and no matter how many hints were dropped by the family, he showed no inclination whatsoever of returning to his own home.

Midas and Lillian were beside themselves. What had begun as a simple act of Christian charity had spun wildly out of control, and they were at a loss as how to get rid of their visitor. Lillian sometimes asked him if his friends would be missing his company. Silenus would simply say he didn't think they'd mind his absence. Disappointed by that answer, she would ask if he himself was missing the more exciting districts. After all, the social opportunities of a common bank-man would hardly be enough to satisfy the cravings of a rich playboy. To this he would simply smile in that cunning, impish way of his, and tell her that just to be in her company was more of a pleasure than anything else London could offer. It was difficult to argue with such flattery.

Midas was ready to be rid of his guest. He was beginning to hate himself for taking him in. No social recognition from the leaders of industry was worth this aggravation. What kind of person overstayed their welcome in this way? And for no purpose! Still, he would keep his dignity. He would be a gentleman. Silenus Beauregard would stay until he finally decided to leave, and would not be thrown out onto the street. Midas was starting to wonder if being a gentleman was worth it.

Luckily for him, he didn't have much time to worry about his home affairs. Every day he'd go to work early to get a head start on the day. It was a rough week, there were unusual hold ups with several of the loans under his jurisdiction and until they could be worked out, he could not help his clients move forward. Most irritating of all, none of these hold ups were in his power to correct, and he was forced to wait for others to act before anything could be done. This sense of powerlessness infuriated him, especially when just across the hall his rival Thompson seemed to have been blessed with several extraordinarily easy cases that would bring the bank thousands in interest, all with little or no extra effort by Thompson himself. Midas would shake his head in disgust and try harder, all to no avail.

He'd stay an hour or two late each night, making certain everything was in perfect order. By the time he left the bank, the only people around were the custodians. It'd be dark when he arrived home, sometimes so late that Marigold would already be in bed. Lillian was not pleased by all of these hours spent away, but Midas promised her that it was only temporary.

Friday rolled around. The sun broke through the clouds over the city and seemed to promise a beautiful day. Midas had his valet dress him particularly well, and, picking up his hat, he marched toward the front door.

Marigold met him on the landing, still in her nightgown, her glasses missing. "Are you going to be gone all day?" she asked.

"I'll be home tonight, sweetheart," he told her, leaning down to kiss her on the forehead.

"But when? Are you going to stay all night again? I don't like it when you stay all night."

Midas was both impatient and chagrined. "It'd only for a little while, darling. A few more days and then I'll be able to come home earlier. I promise."

"Can you look at my garden before you go? I have new tulips," she pleaded, tugging on his sleeve.

"I have to leave now, Marigold," he said, gently pulling out of her grasp. "I'll look at your flowers later."

"All right," she said, her shoulders slumping.

Midas walked past her, hurrying down the steps. Now he was late.

In his dim little office, Midas started looking over some paperwork, only to be interrupted fifteen minutes later by Mr. Jameson. He rose to his feet.

"Ah, Leeford. I saw your light on," said the other man.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"No, no, I just came to give you some news," Jameson couldn't look Midas directly in the eye. "You see, Leeford, the board's decided who's going to replace me."

Midas' heart sped, though not in exultation. Something about Mr. Jameson's expression did not give him hope.

"I'm sorry, but they've chosen Thompson. He's made several conquests these last few days and they're pleased with him."

"Thompson?" Midas nearly choked on the word. "But, sir, forgive me, but Thompson has done nothing out of the ordinary. Those loans were hardly difficult, just because the interest rates were good and the Bank will make money, Thompson himself has done—"

"I'm sorry, my man. Honestly, I tend to agree with you, but it is the board who decides these things, not us." Mr. Jameson gave him a sympathetic look and even walked over to put his hand on Midas' shoulder. "There'll be other opportunities for you to advance yourself," He told him gently. "Until then, keep up your good work."

Barely able to hide his disappointment, Midas mumbled a reply and Mr. Jameson left him alone.

Still standing behind his desk, Midas lowered his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Anger boiled inside of him, and he had the sudden urge to sweep everything off the desk in frustration. All of this time and energy, wasted! He'd never even taken a break for lunch, and barely slept at night, dreaming about figures and statements. He silently raged at the board, and even began considering ways to avenge himself. Thompson! The thought of it made him want to hit someone.

Again he was powerless. The Directors had made their decision and it was up to him to abide by it. From now on he would be taking orders from a man who was half as qualified as himself. The idea sickened him.

He needed a drink. In the cupboard against the wall was a small bottle of brandy, saved by himself for special occasions. He hadn't expected it to be used for this kind of special occasion. He poured a little into one of the glasses in the cupboard, and then shook his head and filled the little crystal glass to the rim. He knocked it back, making a face as it burned its way down to his stomach. Some of it had sloshed onto his hand, and he sucked it off, wishing he could drink more. He couldn't though, he was still at work. There were papers to file and appointments to make and . . .

Midas sighed, tilting his head back. What was he going to do? Was he really just going to sit here, day after day, year in and year out? Was that what he wanted? No, of course not. When he considered his future, he saw himself in charge, a man of means—not some lowly bank worker locked away in the maze of offices, never to see the light of day again. He saw he and his family moving in the posh circles of London, rubbing shoulders with dignitaries and members of Parliament. He'd promised his daughter a pony and a house in the country. Tonight he'd have to tell her the truth.

Midas slumped down into his chair, half turned toward the window. For the first time in days he ignored his work. He stared out the window at the brick wall of the building next door. No sunlight came through the window today. How apt.

Money. That's what he needed. That's what had gotten Thompson promoted, the gold and bank notes. That's what made the Directors powerful, the cash in their pockets and the gold in the vaults of the Bank. If Midas had more gold, he wouldn't even need to be affiliated with the Bank. The Bank and its Directors would dream of being affiliated with _him_. How could he do it? How could he become so rich that the Directors would regret ever having scorned his abilities? Midas smiled to himself. Impossible. It would take a miracle for him to achieve so much.

* * *

He didn't stay late that evening. At exactly five o'clock, he was pulling on his coat and walking out the door. Eyebrows were raised when his co-workers saw him coming out of his office. He ignored them. He saw Dexter Thompson across the hall, his usually easy smile more smug than usual. Swallowing every bitter feeling, Midas strode over and congratulated him on his promotion, thinking all the while how he could destroy him in the upcoming months.

The hansom cab dropped him off outside his home. Pausing on the sidewalk, Midas looked up at the house. It must have been the same as it usually was, but somehow it seemed so small. Nothing compared to the houses they might have had if he'd gotten the promotion.

A curtain flickered, and he saw Marigold's face appear at one of the upper story windows. She smiled down at him and he tried to smile back. He made himself regain some of his composure. It would not do to have his little girl worried about him.

"Daddy!" she cried from the top of the stairs as he walked through the door.

He forced himself to smile. When she met him a the bottom of the stairs, he swung her around just like he always did, his heart heavy as lead. He was at a loss how to tell his wife.

They met her in the drawing room and all it took was one look before Lillian had Marigold running out to the garden so that her parents could be alone. Midas should have foreseen as much. His wife knew him too well.

"What?" she asked, as soon as their daughter was gone.

Again, he tried to smile, but he could barely manage it. Lillian was watching him carefully, her face suddenly white. "Midas, what is it? What's wrong?" Her volume was rising, becoming frantic.

He shook his head and took a seat across from her. "I'm fine. Really. It's just that," he sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. "I didn't get it, Lil. They gave the job to Thompson."

She was silent for a moment, then got up out of her chair to come and sit next to him on the settee. "I'm so sorry, my love." she said, taking his hand.

He leaned back, and rested his head on the wall behind the settee, looking at the ceiling. It was easier than facing the beautiful, pitying eyes that watched him.

"I suppose Marigold has to wait for her pony," he said.

"That isn't important. You did your best, darling. You did the very best you could. I'm proud of you for it."

"For all the good it does me," he said. "If I had money, if I just had _money_ , I could give us all the lives we really want. And it doesn't seem that money ever wants to come my way."

"I do have the life I want," she corrected him. "I have a beautiful family whom I love. I have a wonderful home and good neighbors. And except for that bizarre little man on the second floor, my life is absolutely perfect. There is nothing you could buy me that would make it one bit better. So buck up. This is not your fault." She touched the side of his face, rubbing his cheek with her thumb.

He looked over at her. She seemed to have meant her words, but that was her way. Lillian always made the best of her situations. He wished she didn't have to do that, that her situations would already be the best. He reached up and covered her hand with his own, leaning his face into her palm.

"I'll find a way," he said. "I just need to rethink a few things."

"Could you spend a little more time at home while you're doing that? We miss you here, Midas."

He gave her a small smile. "I'll do my—"

The door swung open, startling them. Silenus Beauregard stood in the doorway in his flamboyant, purple silk vest, hat on his head.

"Forgive my interruption, my dear Leefords, but I must take my leave of you now."

Stunned, Midas and Lillian rose to their feet and made inquiries as to where he was off to.

"I've been summoned by my mate Aurum. He's got it in his head to go to some big bash uptown and wants me to tag along. I hate to leave you all on such short notice, but Aurum owns me, you see. I'd still be back in old York if not for him."

"That's quite all right, old chap." said Midas. He tried to hide his relief.

"We would never interfere with such an official summons as all that," agreed Lillian. "I do hope you've enjoyed your time with us, Mr. Beauregard. I can only imagine how dull it must have been for you."

"Not at all, madam. I've never had such a merry time in my life." He beamed at her. "Nor been surrounded by such heavenly faces." Silenus reached over, and, taking her hand, kissed it with a bit more enthusiasm than Midas thought necessary.

With just a few more flowery adieus from the prolonged visitor, at last he made his way out the door, and the Leeford residence went back to normal. Silenus Beauregard had stayed ten days—nine more than expected. After watching him leave, husband and wife sank back down

onto the settee, sighing in relief.

Only little Marigold was sad to see him go. She'd become quite fond of the fantastical little dandy. She told her parents that once when she was out in the garden with Silenus, he'd taken a strange little pipe out of his shirt-sleeve and made such wonderful music that the flowers had burst into bloom right before her eyes.

* * *

Monday came. Midas woke to golden sunlight spilling through the bedroom window, pooling on the bedcover. He watched the dust motes dance in the gilded rays and thought about his situation. That sense of futility weighed him down until he felt like his veins were lined with lead. No matter how he tried to shake it off, the depression only seemed to grow stronger, as if it was sucking the life out of him.

He took a cab to work. Stepping out of it, he took a moment to look up at the monolith of the banking industry. It was not a comfortable looking building, it's arches and pillars seemed to stare down at passer-by through half-closed eyes, excluding them from the world of prosperity. He glowered up at the building, determined to prove it wrong. He would make it if it was the last thing he did.

Walking through the ornamented lobbies and lofty rooms, he finally made it to the Department of Loans. He avoided the eyes of his co-workers, going straight to his office. He closed the door behind him and shrugged out of his coat.

It was several moments before Midas realized he wasn't the only person in the room. Leaning against the opposite wall, a young man watched him silently. Catching sight of him out of the corner of his eye. Midas started so violently that he dropped his hat.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

The young man grinned at him, pushing himself off the wall. He was quite good looking, tall and muscular with chestnut curls that glistened in the light. He was wearing a bright gold-colored vest over his shirt, and his cufflinks were golden as well. He twisted a cane in his hand, the head of which was a gilded pinecone, which struck Midas as rather odd.

"Didn't mean to scare you, old boy," the stranger joked. His voice was sneering, and Midas stiffened at the sound of it.

"What can I do for you?" Midas asked. In his mind he was already preparing to call for the guard to have this hooligan thrown out.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," said the stranger. He extended his hand. "The name's Aurum. Bacchus Aurum. My friend was staying with you recently."

Midas' heart sank. He'd believed his troubles with Silenus Beauregard were over. "He mentioned you."

"Did he?" Mr. Aurum laughed heartily at that. He had a deep, contagious sort of laugh and if Midas weren't so annoyed, he might have started in with him, though he wasn't sure what the joke was. "What did he tell you?"

"He just said that you'd brought him to London and that you were going to a party together."

Aurum almost seemed disappointed. "Is that all? I'd thought he was a better gossip than that. Oh well. I just came here to thank you for taking such good care of him. And for not murdering him, though I'm sure it crossed your mind."

Midas replied that it hadn't.

"Oh, you don't have to lie to me, old boy. I've spent enough time with Silenus to know how wretched he is. The old fool doesn't know how to take a hint."

"No, perhaps not."

"That's why I came to see you today. I want to know if there is any way I can return the favor. Any wish I can grant you for putting up with my friend."

Midas hesitated. He'd originally considered some sort of reward for taking care of Beauregard, though he'd long since believed that having the man gone would be reward in and of itself. He'd originally sought some sort of recognition from Beauregard's acquaintance as a foothold for his future accomplishments. Now that those social conquests were no longer in his reach, he had no idea what to ask for.

"There's no need to concern yourself with that, sir. A man needed my assistance, I could not deny him in such a case."

Aurum snorted. "Silenus was drunk out of his head. You could have just let him alone til he came around. And you could have kicked him out the door anytime you wanted afterwards. I know what a trial my friend can be. Let me ease the agony of the memory."

Midas smiled at that. Yes, it seemed this Mr. Aurum understood his annoyance."Whatever you think fitting, sir."

"Well." Aurum rubbed his hands together impatiently. "What do you want? Any wish I'll grant."

Midas was slightly taken aback by that. "Anything, sir?" he asked. "That might be a little beyond your power I'm afraid."

"Don't doubt me," countered the other. "Name your wish."

Midas considered that. What the young man said was folly. No matter how influential he was, some things must be out of his grasp. A flicker caught his eye. The sun, in one of those rare moments when it managed to break through the smog, shone on a few guineas that were laying on the desk. He'd forgotten them last Friday in his haste to get out of the office. A sudden, mad thought occurred to him. He chuckled to himself, shaking his head.

"What?" asked Bacchus Aurum, raising an eyebrow.

"I was just thinking that if I could truly have whatever I wanted, I'd ask for a source of endless income right at my fingertips. I'd ask for all the gold in the world. Better yet, I'd wish that everything I ever touched would _turn_ to gold. I was just laughing at the stupidity of such an idea."

Aurum was looking at him strangely. His head was cocked to the side, his eyes fastened on Midas with such scrutiny that it was making Midas uncomfortable.

"Is that truly what you want?" Aurum asked after a long moment.

Midas smirked. "Yes, but it's hardly possible."

"Are you sure? Above anything else, you would want this . . .this golden touch?"

Midas eyed him, unsure how to react. Part of him wondered if this young man was mad. Another part wondered if he was serious. He imagined having that kind of ultimate power—the ability to magically turn any object into pure gold. His thoughts suddenly went to his brother. Greg believed such a thing was true. Could it really be possible? His pulse sped. He'd be famous, the most powerful man on earth. In a single afternoon he could be richer than the crown. Every man, woman and child would know his name. Parliament would want him, the Directors would rue the day they left him to rot in this claustrophobic office. He'd never have to work again. His family would never lack for anything. Lillian would be like a queen, their daughter would have an entire stable of ponies and go to the best schools in Britain. Such a gift would fulfill every desire he'd ever had.

"Yes," he answered, dazed. "Yes, that's what I would want."

"Then you've got it." said Aurum. He clapped his hands together once, as if that decided everything. Then he moved to get his hat and coat, taking his leave. "I grant your wish. At sunrise tomorrow, you'll have your gift, this golden touch of yours."

Midas stared at him, bewildered. "Just like that?" he asked.

"Just like that. Farewell, Mr. Leeford. Perhaps we will meet again sometime or other." And with one last, dazzling smile, Bacchus Aurum went away.


	4. Chapter 4

FOUR

Marigold hummed to herself as she buried her hands in the black soil, pawing some of the dirt to the side before dropping the little, white seed into the hole. She scooted a little to the right and started the process all over again. Midas handed her a new seed and watched as she dropped this one in too. His thoughts were far away, thinking about the strange visit from Mr Aurum. " _At sunrise tomorrow, you'll have your gift, this golden touch of yours."_ was what he'd said. Midas didn't believe it, not for a second, and yet he couldn't keep his thoughts away from it for long.

"Now it's time for the mints," said Marigold.

"Where do you want them?"

"Uuum," Marigold glanced around her little garden. Midas couldn't imagine that there was any more room, but his daughter was determined. At last, she found a small space at the edge of one of the flower beds. Taking her little trowel, she began tilling up the earth, preparing it for her mint seeds. Midas had offered to help her, but Marigold insisted on doing it herself. She'd only allowed him to hold to seed packets for her as she worked.

"Why are you planting mint?" he asked. "I don't think mint has flowers."

"Mr Beauregard says that mint smells better than flowers. And Mama says that you can put it in tea, but I don't want to do that."

"Oh? Why not?"

"Because mint plants aren't really plants. Mint is actually a nymph named Minthe that got changed into a plant by a crazy woman."

Midas raised an eyebrow. "Where on earth did you hear that?"

"Mr Beauregard told me. He said that there was a beautiful little nymph named Minthe— hear how her name sounds like mint?—who fell in love with a god named Hades. Hades was married though, and when his wife found out that Minthe loved him, she was so angry that she turned Minthe into a mint plant. Isn't that sad?"

"It seems like a valid reaction. What do you think Mama would do if she found out someone was in love with me?"

Marigold considered it. "I don't think anyone would fall in love with you, Daddy."

Midas laughed. "Why do you say that? Am I too old?"

Marigold flushed, unsure how to respond, which made her father laugh even harder.

"I'll bet you Hades was even older than I am. Of course, I imagine he was richer than me too, so that might have given her some incentive."

"I'll bet it was because he was devilishly handsome," Lillian called from behind them.

"Then you definitely don't have anything to worry about," he replied.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," she answered, smirking at him over the top of her book.

"I'm ready for a seed, Daddy," said Marigold, reaching up toward him. Midas placed one of the tiny mint seeds into her palm and watched her carefully bury it. Taking her watering can, she sprinkled water over the top. They planted four more mint seeds—four more little nymphs—before Lillian reminded them of the time.

"Go in and wash up before Grandmama arrives, Marigold."

"Yes, ma'am."

Midas watched her leave the garden before turning to his wife. "Your mother is coming?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

"Why, yes. Marigold and I are going to stay with her for a couple of days, remember? For the Marshall's garden party on Wednesday?"

"That's this week?"

"Midas," Lillian said, raising an eyebrow. "I've mentioned it several times. Just last night I asked you if you wanted us to stay home. You said no."

Midas rubbed the back of his head and looked sheepishly at her. "I suppose I've been rather preoccupied lately."

"Apparently," she remarked. She tilted her head to the side. "We can still stay. Or you can come with us."

"No, that's quite all right. You'd have more fun without me." Midas cringed at the thought of spending more than an hour in the home of his parents-in-law. His mother-in-law especially was less than satisfied when her only child married a no-name banker with a madman for a brother.

"Are you quite sure?"

"Very."

"Well, all right then. We'll be back sometime Wednesday evening."

Lillian's mother arrived half an hour later. She pushed her way into the house, doffing her mink shawl and handing it to the footman.

"Where is my darling girl?" she called.

Marigold rushed forward and flung herself at her unsuspecting grandmother, expecting to be caught and whirled about like when her father came through the door. Unfortunately, Grandmama was not as spry as Daddy, and the two of them nearly toppled over at the impact. The footman caught hold of Mrs Gilman just before the pair landed in a heap on the floor.

"Good gracious!" she exclaimed as the footman helped her regain her balance.

"Mother, are you all right?" Lillian asked, hurrying forward to disentangle Marigold. "Marigold, you mustn't do such things!"

Still flustered, Mrs Gilman straightened her hat and smoothed out her skirt. "Yes, yes, Lillian, I'm quite all right. Don't be angry with the child."

"I'm sorry," Marigold whispered, looking at her shoes. Behind her, Midas had to refrain from intervening.

"It's not your fault, sweetling," said her grandmother. She pulled something out of her handbag. It was a small box of sweets. "I brought you something special."

Embarrassment forgotten, Marigold took the present and popped one of the sweets into her mouth.

Midas helped the ladies into his mother-in-law's carriage, first Mrs Gilman and then little Marigold. He could hear them whispering excitedly to one another. Lillian hesitated for a moment on the sidewalk.

"And you're sure you don't want to come with us?" she asked. "I hate to leave you alone after . . . you know."

Midas gave her a small smile. "I'll be fine, Lil. It's just a set back. I'm half over it already."

Lillian chewed her lip, still undecided.

"It'll upset me more to have you ruining all your plans just to baby me."

That decided it. Lillian shook her head and allowed him to help her into the carriage. "We'll be back Wednesday evening."

"I'll be here. Marigold," he called, "be a good girl for your mama."

"I will."

"Of course she will," tutted Mrs Gilman. "My granddaughter is an angel."

Midas tried not to roll his eyes. He closed the door and watched the carriage rattle down the cobblestone street before turning to go back inside.

The house seemed too big without them. He walked down the hall toward the parlor. The furniture sat in their respective corners, all facing each other like ghosts were having a conversation. It was too quiet. It made him fidgety.

 _Boom_

The noise shook the whole house. The tiny crystals on the lampshade clinked together, the floor vibrated so madly that Midas had to hold onto the sofa to keep his balance. Several cries of dismay echoed up from the servants in the kitchen and Midas could only hope that the floor hadn't caved in down there. He closed his eyes and sighed. Greg.

The cellar was full of foul-smelling smoke. It billowed up into the kitchen, where all the windows and doors had been flung open and a kitchen maid was flapping a towel at the top of the cellar stairs, trying to wave the smoke toward the door. She gave Midas a gloomy look as he walked over to the cellar stairs.

"Do you think he's dead down there?" he asked her. "I don't want to breathe in that stuff if he's dead anyway."

"I heard him walking around, sir."

Midas sighed. "I suppose I should go, then." He pulled the collar of his shirt up over his nose and started down the stairs.

The cellar was like a dungeon. The air was cold and damp, clinging to his skin. The ceiling wasn't much higher than Midas' head and he had to duck under several lamps that swung from the rafters. Cobwebs hung in sheets from the ceiling and in the corners, a testament to how long it had been since the butler had been banished from the place. The floor was muddy, the accumulated dust and ash mixing with the moisture of the cellar.

"Greg!" he called, his eyes watering from the smoke.

"Over here!" a figure was moving around through the smoke up ahead. Midas walked toward him.

"What are you doing down here?" Gregory asked him as Midas came into view. Greg's voice was muffled by an alien looking contraption that covered most of his head. Only his eyes were visible through round glass goggles. He looked like some giant insect.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," Midas said. The last part of the sentence was distorted by a cough as he choked on the smoke.

"Here," Greg said, striding over to the corner of the room where he picked up another face mask. He dusted off the cobwebs with his sleeve before handing it to Midas.

"I told you no more explosions, Greg."

"I didn't mean for it to be so loud."

"Yes, well, one of these days you're going to tell me that you didn't mean to burn down the neighborhood. That won't exactly make things better then, will it?"

"But look at this, Midas," Greg pleaded, gesturing to a cluttered work table. There, on a metal tray, lay what appeared to be metal shavings. They had a reddish yellow tint, almost like bronze.

"All right, I see them. What are they?"

"My experiments are getting closer," Greg said. "I've never come this close before. I'd say within two months I'll have cracked the code and will be able to transmute lead into gold. We'll be richer than kings!"

Midas eyed the bits of metal skeptically, gnawing on his thumbnail in contemplation. They barely resembled copper or bronze and were nowhere near gold. He recalled Bacchus Aurum's ludicrous promise, that Midas would be able to transmute objects into gold just by touching them. His heart beat faster at the very notion of it. He desperately tried to squash the idea. It could never happen. This was not some fairy land, this was modern England, an age of scientific achievement, not idle fantasies. And yet, he could not altogether crush his foolish hope. If he had such a gift, Greg's experiments would be for nothing. They could be richer than kings by breakfast tomorrow, not in some distant future.

"It's very nice, Greg. Please, don't blow up my house. Really, I'm astonished the neighbors haven't tried to have you committed."

"I'm sure they've considered it." Gregory didn't seem too forlorn at the prospect. "Did you just come down to see if I was alive, then?" He picked up a bowl of some strange, blue substance and began crushing it with a pestle.

"That was mostly it, yes. However, there was something else I've been wanting to ask you." Midas hesitated. It was one thing to consider a mad idea, it was another thing entirely to speak it out loud. "Would it be possible to, say, transmute anything to gold, not just lead?"

"You mean like another metal?"

"I mean anything. Any ordinary household object."

"I doubt it. There might be possibilities for other metals or minerals, but even then it's beyond anything I've come across."

"Mmmm." Midas fiddled with one of the beakers on the table, pretending not to be particularly interested in the conversation. Greg was measuring out the powder he'd been grinding up and seemed completely absorbed in his task. "And the only way to change lead into gold is by doing . . .well, whatever it is that you've been working on?"

"Well not exactly like I've been doing it, obviously, or we'd have gold right now. But yes, it has to be through a great chemical transfusion. It has to affect the element at an atomic level."

"And that can only be done in a lab like this one? You can't just . . . do it?"

Greg laughed. "Just do it? Like by thinking about it? Or praying that it'll happen? Midas, if we could just change atomic structure on a whim then everybody would be turning their pennies into rubies and every time an apple fell from a tree it would turn into a block of gold."

Midas laughed as well, though his heart wasn't in it. He left Greg and went back upstairs.

Dinner was a solitary affair which he finished as quickly as he could. He went out to the garden and walked down the little paths, looking at the flowers Marigold was so proud of. There was dozens in bloom, but the roses were the only ones he could put a name to. They were lovely, white and yellow and pink. He picked a yellow one that was red in the center and twirled between his fingers, imagining it transforming into a golden rose, pale yellow along the edges and deepening to a rose-gold center. His heart was beginning to pound again.

Late that night, he laid sprawled out in his bed. It was far too large for one person, and he wished that Lillian hadn't decided to stay the night with her mother. His thoughts floated between her and the gold touch and his chest ached from the yearning for both. After tossing and turning for two hours, he reached over to his wife's side of the bed. He traded their pillows before burying his face in her's and breathing in the faint smell of her hair. It soothed him enough that he was finally able to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

FIVE

Midas woke early the next morning, his head full of gold. He threw back the coverlet and leapt out of bed. It was still dark outside, but Midas had never felt so alert. Rubbing his hands together, he glanced around the room, deciding what to touch first. One of Lillian's novels lay on the night stand beside the bed. Holding his breath, he picked it up and turned it over in his hands. Nothing happened. Crushing disappointment closed over him and pushed him back down onto the bed in despair. Midas looked down at the ordinary book in his hands. It had a blue cover with a peacock on the front, the words _Pride and Prejudice_ printed beneath the bird. He smiled bleakly, his thumb stroking over the pages, making them flutter. Maybe it was a good thing he hadn't been given the gold touch. Lillian would have killed him if she'd found out he'd ruined her favorite book, gold or no gold.

Midas sat on the edge of the bed for a few more minutes, trying to console himself. It shouldn't surprise him that the gold touch hadn't worked. How could he have expected it to? Aurum must have laughed himself sick after he'd left the office the day before. Midas flushed, half in embarrassment, half in anger. Why had the man invaded his life? Just to play a joke on him? Why had he bothered?

Still confused, Midas rose to his feet and started for his dressing room. His thoughts were too wild for sleep. The clock on the mantle read a quarter after five. Midas' lip curled at the unfairness of it all.

He lit a candle in the dressing room and began rummaging through the wardrobe. His thoughts were elsewhere, making it impossible for him to find anything suitable to wear.

The door opened behind him, and his valet Mr. Runnels entered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Sir," he said in surprise.

"Morning, Runnels, how about getting me some shaving water?" Midas asked as he continued to sort through the wardrobe.

"Of course, sir." Runnels hurried out again.

Midas gave up on clothes and walked over to the vanity table. He inspected himself in the mirror. He looked half-mad, his eyes too bright from the excitement of the morning, and he cursed Aurum again for putting such wild notions into his head. There were other changes as well, changes that had nothing to do with Bacchus Aurum. His hair seemed to have more silver in it than it used to, the lines around his mouth were a bit more defined. He chalked it up to the bank. It was turning him into an old were days when he wanted to quit his job altogether and go into another profession, but what would he do? He was thirty-seven, it was far too late to begin a new career.

The door opened and Runnels came in with a basin of warm water and a cloth. He placed them both on the vanity in front of Midas.

"Thank you," Midas told him, still looking in the mirror.

"I apologize for not being here sooner, sir. I didn't realize you were planning on being up so early."

"I wasn't planning on it. I couldn't sleep." Midas leaned forward and splashed some water on his face. He always shaved himself, to the chagrin of his valet. It had always made him uneasy to have another person wielding a straight razor around his jugular. Midas trimmed the edges of his beard, his heart sinking as he gave up all of yesterday's dreams. Another day of fruitless efforts was dawning, another grueling, humiliating day of watching Thompson reign over the Department of Loans.

He sighed and put the razor down, dabbing at his face with the towel. He stared down into the basin of murky water, milky with the old suds. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting the room in a bright orange-red light and turning the water pink.

" _At sunrise tomorrow, you'll have your gift."_

Sunrise. He'd awoken before sunrise. Midas' heart lurched. He reached forward and dipped his finger into the water, swirling it around a bit. As soon as he touched the water, a miracle began to happen. A golden pattern—like golden frost—ghosted over the surface of the water, coating it until the bowl was filled with one solid lump of gold. The surface was uneven, the ripples and soap subs having been transformed as well. Midas had withdrawn his finger just in time or it would have been trapped in the golden block. He stared down at the golden water for several seconds in utter astonishment. A startled giggle burst through his lips. He clapped his hand over his mouth but the hysteria kept building and he couldn't contain it.

"Sir?" Runnels asked, looking over in amazement.

"Come look at this, quick!"

Runnels came over, his expression wary. Midas had been acting odd all morning and the valet was beginning to wonder if his master was going mad. He glanced down into the bowl. "Is . . .is that—"

"Gold!" Midas exclaimed. "Pure gold! Ha-ha! Look at this!" He reached for the china pitcher on the corner of the table. He grasped the handle and the golden frost swept across the surface of the jug, turning it to gold instantaneously, the dark blue pattern turning a darker gold than the white.

"Good God!" Runnels gasped. "It's a miracle!"

Midas laughed again. He was absolutely giddy. His heart pounded and he had the sudden urge to dance around the room like a child.

"It worked, it actually worked!" he exclaimed. "Quick, grab me something from the wardrobe."

Runnels pulled out a vest and handed it to Midas. As soon as he touched the silk fabric it turned to spun gold, so heavy that he nearly dropped it. "Now for some trousers," he said. Runnels handed him some trousers which turned to gold as well.

"Here, sir," Runnels said, handing him a pair of fine, leather boots. Midas took them and almost fell over as they transformed. He placed them on the floor and slipped his feet into the cool metal.

"Golden boots," he marveled. "I must be the only man in the entire world with golden boots."

"Surely it isn't really gold," said Runnels. "It must be . . . well it can't be _gold._ "

"Of course it's gold. What else could it be?"

"But, but _how_?"

"Magic," Midas said confidently. He didn't know how it was possible, but Mr. Aurum had been true to his word. Midas had the golden touch.

"Impossible," Runnels said again.

"You doubt me?" asked Midas. "Well then, let me prove it to you. Come on!" He led the way out of the dressing room, walking through the house in nothing but his night shirt and golden boots. It hadn't turned to gold yet, presumably because he'd been wearing it before the sun had risen. He wondered if he took it off whether it would turn to gold when he put it back on again. His golden boots rang loud against the wooden floors and his spirits thrilled to hear it. The two men stopped first outside Gregory's bedroom, but he wasn't there. Then they made their way down to the cellar.

It was strangely silent. The spiders in the corners watched the men as they passed. Midas had a sudden idea and, reaching up, touched one of the webs. The instant his fingers brushed the sticky thing every thread turned to a fine gold wire, startling the resident spider so badly that it darted away into the shadows.

"Marvelous," Midas whispered.

Greg was sitting at his work table, head in his arms, sound asleep. His face mask was pushed back on his head, messing up his hair.

"He'll be able to tell us if it's real gold or not." Midas told his valet. After glancing about the room, Midas began picking up different instruments and beakers, changing them all into gold. Steel scalpels and stone mortar and pestles and the tray with it's metal shavings that still lay on the table were instantly transformed. Soon the gloomy cellar looked like a pirate's trove.

"Greg, wake up!" Midas called.

Greg snorted and jerked his head off the table, looking around wildly. "Wha? What is it? Midas?" He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to wake up. "What are you doing down here? What time is it?

"Look at this." Midas shoved the tray of metal shavings under his brother's nose. Greg went very still.

"I did it," he murmured, snatching the tray away from Midas. "I did it!" He jumped out of the chair and did a little jig around the cellar. "I've turned lead into gold!"

"Greg—"

"How did I do it though?" Gregory mused, looking back down at the tray. "These weren't like this last night. It must have taken several hours for the chemical reaction to reach its full effect. Now, what did I do exactly? Maybe I can speed up the process." He snatched up one of the half dozen notebooks scattered across the table and thumbed through the pages, searching for where he'd left off.

"Greg," Midas interrupted. "You didn't turn them into gold."

"What do you mean? They're as gold as anything."

"Yes, but you weren't the one that made them that way, old chap. I'm afraid I beat you to it." Midas reached across and touched the notebook. The golden frost dusted across the page and within a moment the entire notebook was gold, each page made of delicate gold leaf, the untidy ink script changing to a darker gold than the pale paper.

Greg stared down at the notebook, completely dumbfounded.

"How in the name of God did you do that?"

Midas grinned. "Magic."

Greg eyed him. "There's no such thing."

"I beg your pardon, I just changed half your laboratory into solid gold."

"But how?"

Midas told him about the bargain with Bacchus Aurum.

Greg shook his head in wonder. "It's bedlam I tell you."

"Oh don't look so forlorn. We're rich! You don't have to spend another minute in this cellar."

Greg scratched his head, seeming at a loss. "I suppose that's true. Honestly though, this feels like a dream. I'm expecting to wake up any moment now."

"Is it really gold, then?" Runnels asked from the corner.

Greg jumped at the sound of his voice. He hadn't noticed him standing there. "It appears to be, though there are ways to find out." He turned and went to one of the boxes in the corner. He rummaged through it for several seconds before pulling out a small vial with a black label.

"What is that?" Midas asked.

"Nitric acid."

Both Midas and Runnels took a step backwards. "You have acid down here?" Midas demanded.

"It's fine. I know what I'm doing." Greg picked up one of the golden scalpels and used it to scratch at the golden cover of the notebook. There was an awful screeching noise that sent shivers down Midas's spine and set his teeth on edge.

Taking the vial of acid, Greg pulled out the dropper and squeezed a single drop of the stuff onto the scratched area of the metal. A tiny plume of smoke rose off the surface, but other than that nothing happened.

Gregory stood looking down at it for several long moments, hands on his hips, not speaking.

"Well?" Midas demanded. "Is it really gold?"

"Seems to be." Greg looked up at him in wonder. "We're going to be richer than the queen."


	6. Chapter 6

SIX

The breakfast parlor glittered in the morning sunlight. Midas had spent the last two hours wandering about the house and turning everything within reach to gold. It had been like a parade, his brother and the entire household staff trailing behind him as he had walked from room to room, getting richer with every step. He'd told the servants that no one outside the house was supposed to know about the miracle yet, he wanted to surprise his wife and daughter when they returned. Everyone was promised a splendid bonus for their secrecy and they had sworn to be as silent as the grave. They were all still standing around staring at him, even the cook who had had to hurry down to the kitchen to make her master's breakfast. The staff had much to wonder at indeed, for not only were all the rooms furnishings solid gold, but Mr. Leeford himself was different. Gone was the care-laden, serious bank man. In his place was a laughing, lively person, who joked with the footmen and teased the cook for being behind schedule. It frightened them almost as much as it pleased them and the little kitchen maids had been whispering between themselves about black magic until Midas gave each of them a little gold rosebud.

Greg sat next to Midas at the breakfast table, carving up his ham with gilded utensils. They chatted about unimportant things for fifteen minutes or so, pretending to barely pay any mind when something else changed to gold. After that, Midas dismissed the servants so that he could eat in peace.

"I'm still waiting to wake up," Greg mumbled through a mouthful of ham. "This can't actually be happening."

"I know what you mean." Midas could hardly believe it himself. If it was a dream though, he sincerely hoped he wouldn't be waking up anytime soon. He poured himself a cup of tea and picked up his fork. He hadn't been comfortable eating with a roomful of people watching his every move, but he really was famished. He cracked open one of the boiled eggs and dug his spoon into it. "It's not something you encounter every day." He took a bite of the egg and bit down on something so hard that it sent a shooting pain up through his head. He choked and reached for his napkin, which immediately turned to spun gold. He spit the egg into it. Looking down, he saw what appeared to be a gold nugget, the size and shape of the egg he'd been about to eat. He looked down at it for a few moments, the first tingle of apprehension making it's way through him. Greg hadn't seemed to notice. Placing the napkin aside, Midas took another bite of the egg, this time careful not to chomp down quite so hard. As soon as the egg touched his tongue, he felt it harden into gold. He spat this out too. He reached for his golden cup and tried taking a sip of milk. The moment his lips touched the milk, the golden frost swept across it's surface and changed it to gold.

Midas bit his lip, suddenly nervous. He placed the cup down again and put both of his hands flat on the table. He closed his eyes and went very still. The bargain had been that whatever Midas touched would turn to gold. Surely though, he could make it so that the magic was the product of his will, and not an absolute truth. He attempted to focus his thoughts, and tried to force the magic back so that he would be able to eat.

"Midas?" Greg asked.

Midas opened his eyes again and carefully picked up a slice of toast, frowning in concentration as he tried to keep the bread from turning to gold. Unfortunately, the instant he touched it, the toast transformed into a golden triangle. The brothers both gazed down at it, neither one speaking.

"Midas—"

"It's just something I have to practice with," Midas said, interrupting his brother. "That's all."

"But if that happens to everything you eat—"

"It's just something that requires practice," Midas said again, trying to act cool and collected. "It's nothing you need to concern yourself about. I'm not feeling hungry anyway."

He pushed himself back from the table. "I'll see you later. I've got something I need to attend to."

* * *

"Sincerely, Midas Leeford."

"Sincerely . . . Midas . . .Leeford," Runnels drawled, jotting down the last bit of the letter Midas had been dictating. They were in the study, Midas standing by the window with his hands in his pockets, while his valet sat at the desk. Midas had changed into his new golden clothes and was again appreciating his magical abilities.

The letter Runnels had written out for him—he hadn't wanted the paper to change into gold—was his letter of resignation. There was little point in struggling up the corporate ladder when all the wealth in the world was at his fingertips. So with much cheerfulness he signed away his career.

"Have it sent to the Department of Loans," he said. "To Dexter Thompson's office."

"Yes, sir."

Midas could not help but be a little bit smug at the idea of Thompson's reaction to his sudden removal. Perhaps it would have been better for the Department of Loans if he'd given a notice and stayed until they had a chance to find a proper replacement. Yet Midas couldn't bring himself to be repentant.

His thoughts went to his family. He wondered how Lillian and Marigold were getting along. He smiled as he imagined their faces when they came into the house.

Midas made his way around the study, touching everything he could, turning it all to gold. Lamps, picture frames, books, everything he could get get his hands on. Even parts of the walls were gold. When he'd gone all the way around the room, he nodded his head in approval and sank down onto the sofa to rest. As soon as he touched it, the sofa turned to gold as well, and instead of a cozy chair, Midas was sitting on hard metal. He glanced down in astonishment, his heart sinking. There was nothing to do about it, the sofa was solid gold, probably worth more than all of London Town and the most uncomfortable seat in the world.

Midas got up and put his hands on his hips. Something had to be done. He walked out to the garden. Once there, he made his way over to the ornamental pear tree. He looked up at it. It was a pretty thing. Lillian cut twigs from it every spring when it was in full blossom. The blossoms were gone now, but it was still an elegant little tree. Midas reached up and plucked a leaf from it. The leaf instantly turned to gold in his hand. Midas held it up to his face. He could still see every vein in the leaf, see every ridge and irregularity. The most brilliant goldsmith couldn't come close to such perfection.

Midas dropped the leaf on the ground, then closed his eyes as he had done at the breakfast table. He tried to find the source of the gold touch. If he could just control it, then everything would be perfect. After staying in that attitude for several minutes, he opened his eyes and plucked another leaf off the tree. The moment his hand brushed it, the leaf was gold. He dropped this one as well and plucked another. Again, the leaf changed to gold. He set his jaw, his patience running thin.

"Stop it," he muttered, plucking another leaf. Gold.

"Don't change." Gold.

"No more." Gold.

Midas remained out there for twenty minutes, plucking one leaf after the other. By the end there was a pile of perfect golden leaves at his feet, and three bald branches on the pear tree. He finally gave up. This was becoming serious. It was three o'clock in the afternoon and he hadn't eaten anything all day. If he didn't fix this problem soon he was going to starve to death.

"Don't think that way," he told himself. "There has to be a way to fix this, I just need to figure out what it is."

He went back inside and went upstairs to his dressing room. He found a pair of gloves, which of course turned to gold as soon as he put them on. Sitting down at his desk, he took out another sheet of paper and a pen. He wasn't going to let someone else write this letter, for fear of showing how concerned he was becoming. This letter was to Bacchus Aurum, asking him if there was a way to control the golden touch.

"And if there's not," he concluded to himself, "I'm going to have to give it up altogether," he cringed at the thought. The golden touch was everything he'd ever wanted, the limitless power it gave was the only good thing destiny had ever done for him. It was his form of revenge against those who had sought to break him and control him. To give it up would be to willingly go back to that listless way of living. "I can't give it up yet," he told himself. "I don't have enough gold. I need more, enough to last me and my family the rest of our lives." He finished the note and called for one of the footmen to have it sent out. Hopefully by the next day he'd have his answer, if he didn't stumble across it that evening.

He didn't go down for dinner. His stomach ached and his mouth was dry, yet he knew he wouldn't be able to eat or drink and the smell of food would drive him to distraction.. He was reminded of an old fairy tale about a sinner condemned to spend all eternity up to his neck in a river but not being allowed to drink from it, and having branches full of beautiful fruit hanging just above his head without being able to reach up and take any. As a child Midas had thought little of the story, but now he was just beginning to comprehend that sort of agony.

The day wore on and on, and every moment Midas became hungrier and thirstier. The thirst soon became more concerning, and it was difficult to think of anything else. He became so desperate that he sent for a pitcher of water to be brought up to his room so that he could try to take a drink, but every time he poured water into a glass, it would turn to gold the moment it touched his lips. Soon the water in the pitcher was gone and Midas ground his teeth together in frustration and threw his golden cup against the wall. It left a dent in the plaster. Midas pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to calm himself. He just needed to wait for Bacchus to reply to his note. He was not going to die after one day without food and drink. He decided to go down and see if Greg had any ideas about what to do. He went down to the cellar, expecting to find him there, but instead he found the butler Mr. Simmons with a broom in his hand.

"Simmons?"

"Sir," said the butler with a bow.

"What are you doing down here?"

"Mr. Gregory Leeford informed me that his experimenting days were over. I've been allowed access to the cellar once more." Simmons' expression was a mix of relief and vexation and Midas could only imagine his irritation at finding what a wreck the cellar had become.

"I see. Where is my brother?"

"He left about an hour ago, sir. I believe to meet with someone."

Midas raised an eyebrow. Greg didn't have many acquaintances. He's spent most of the last three years down in the cellar.

"If you happen to see him when he comes home could you send him to find me? I'd like to speak to him."

"Of course, sir."

With his brother gone and the girls not expected home until the next day, there was nothing else to do but sit and wait and wonder at his predicament. He tried to distract himself from the thirst, but every time he picked up a book it changed to gold, warping the letters until they were unintelligible and he couldn't go for a walk because walking just made him thirstier. By nine o'clock in the the evening Midas was more parched than he'd ever been in his life. He had begun to regret ever asking for the golden touch.

"I should have just asked that a cheque for a million pounds be delivered through the post. Why didn't I think of doing that? Then I'd be happy as a clam right now. But no, I had to ask for the maddest thing in the world." He went to bed, hoping that sleep would help distract him from the thirst. He went and changed out of his heavy gold clothes. The night shirt from this morning was lying in the laundry hamper. He eyed it, wondering if it would change once he touched it. It has stayed the same this morning—maybe it would remain cotton. He walked over and picked it up only to watch as the golden frost consumed it. His head drooped in defeat. He was sick of wearing golden clothing, it was heavy and uncomfortable. He missed the feel of soft satin and cotton and wool. He missed being able to sit in a comfortable chair and the sweet taste of water.

"What have I done?" he muttered, letting the golden nightshirt slip through his fingers. Wearing only his underclothes—because who could sleep in golden cloth?—he shuffled into his bedroom and flopped down on the bed. It was like falling on the floor. The instant his back touched the mattress it changed to gold, the sheets and coverlet likewise. His pillow was harder than a rock. Midas covered his face with his hands and groaned. It wasn't fair! He'd gotten everything he'd ever wanted and it was making him more miserable than he'd ever been. He wanted to go back to how things were before he'd gotten the golden touch. He hadn't known how lucky he had been. At least he could eat and drink and had a nice, soft bed to lie in and clothes that didn't weigh a ton and irritate his skin. He suddenly wanted to go back to the time when his only problem was that his coworker had stolen his promotion. That time suddenly seemed like a fairy land.

"You've made your bed, Midas, now lie in it." He muttered to himself. Unsurprisingly, that did little to comfort him.


	7. Chapter 7

SEVEN

Midas walked barefoot through a wide country brook, the cold water turning his feet numb. There were fields of tall grass all around him, and the air smelled like fresh-mown hay. Midas knelt down in the stream and scooped up a handful of the clear water. The water stayed water in his hands, the golden touch gone. He smiled and lifted the water to his lips, drinking it all. He was still thirsty afterwards and scooped up another handful, and then another, and another. No matter how much water he drank, his throat was still parched.

Midas opened his eyes. It was morning, fairly late in the day from the cast of the sunlight coming through the windows, probably around eleven or noon. He had tossed and turned all night, the golden bed underneath him as hard as the floor of a coffin. He pushed himself upright, his neck sore and the inside of his mouth as dry as a desert.

Something had to be done, and soon, or Midas Leeford was going to die of thirst.

He rang the bell. Within a few moments Runnels walked into the room.

"Yes, sir?"

"Has the post come?"

"Yes."

"Did Aurum send word?"

"I'm afraid not, sir."

Midas leaned forward and placed his head in his hands. This was a disaster! He'd placed all of his hope into getting a letter from Aurum to tell him how to control this curse.

"Mr. Leeford? Are you ill?"

"Is my brother home?"

Runnels hesitated. Midas looked terrible, his eyes were bloodshot and his skin gray. Worse, there was a strange, dead look in his eyes. The good humor of the day before had vanished. "Yes, sir. Shall I send for him?"

"Please do."

Midas rose to his feet and paced along the floor. He had never felt so physically miserable. Even moving around the room was exhausting. What was he going to do? He had to find a way to drink something or he'd be dead within a few days.

It took ten minutes before Greg showed up at his door. He looked exhausted as well, though there was a certain new gleam in his eye.

"Good morning, ol' chap," he said cheerfully. Midas gave him such a despairing look that it caught Greg off guard. "Midas? What's happened?"

"I can't get it to stop," Midas croaked. "Greg, I can't get it to stop!"

"Can't get what to stop?"

"This!" Midas slammed his hand against the wall. The frost crept across the surface, making a large patch of gold-leaf wallpaper. "Everything I touch turns to gold! I can't eat anything, I can't drink, I can't even sleep!" He moved toward Gregory, a desperate light in his eye. "You've got to help me Greg, or I'm going to dry up into nothing!"

"Easy there," Greg warned. "You're going to be all right. Now, you haven't eaten or drank anything since you got this?"

"No,"

"And what all have you tried to stop it?"

Midas explained to him about his failed attempts to turn off the curse. "I wrote to Bacchus Aurum yesterday, but he hasn't responded. The man probably isn't even in town. I don't know what else to do. What about your alchemy? Surely there has to be something there that can help."

Greg could only shake his head. Whatever magic—and it could only be magic—that Midas had obtained was beyond anything he had ever studied. "It's completely beyond me. We'd best call the doctor."

Midas blinked at him in surprise. He hadn't even considered that. "Of course, yes, have someone send for him."

The half hour it took for the doctor to arrive seemed like the longest in Midas' life. He stared vacantly at the opposite wall, too preoccupied with his circumstances to pay attention to anything else. His wife and daughter would be home that evening. What on earth would they say when they walked through the gilded rooms of the house? The notion had entertained him yesterday, but now their happiness would be tainted with grief. How had he allowed this to happen? What would they do when he was gone? Marigold would grow up without a father. He'd never see her grow into a woman, never walk her down the aisle or see her have a family of her own. And what about Lillian? He'd be making her a widow in the prime of her life. Recently she'd seemed to be hinting that she wanted another child, but now those dreams would die with him. And to think it was all because of his own stupidity.

'It's going to be all right," Greg murmured from behind him. Midas had forgotten he was there.

"Talk to me about something," Midas said. "Help me get my mind off this, please."

Greg seemed to think about it. "Well, I saw somebody last night."

Midas recalled that his brother had been missing the evening before. "A friend?"

"Mmm, yes." Greg seemed self conscious about the topic, and his cheeks turned pink.

Midas raised an eyebrow. "A female friend?"

"Her name is Iris, I know her brother from work," he explained. "She's been trying to get me to walk out with her for months now, but, well, I've been busy."

"Alchemy before love?" Midas mused. "You really are mad."

Greg chuckled at that. Though he'd been attempting to help distract him, Midas' mind could only go in one direction. That was another wedding he would be missing. Well, at least Greg would have somebody to look out for him. He closed his eyes. He'd been protecting his younger brother since they were children, it was irresponsible of him to just walk out like this.

They could hear a commotion downstairs. The doctor must have arrived. Midas rose to his feet, feeling rather lightheaded. Within moments the doctor was ushered through the door. The sight of a doctor always made Midas rather queasy. Instead of the beacons of hope they were meant to be, in his experience the sight of a doctor was a usual precursor to death. Only the very ill were deemed worthy of a doctor's visit.

"Which of you is Mr. Leeford?" asked the doctor. He was an elderly, gentlemanlike man with a white mustache and a dark coat. His blue eyes stared out from beneath their bushy brows, flicking from one man to the next. The Mr. Leefords glanced at each other, and Greg smiled a little.

"I'm your patient, sir," said Midas.

"And what seems to be the problem?"

Midas shifted his weight. What we was about to reveal would sound completely mad. "What did my man tell you, exactly?" he asked instead.

"Only that I was needed," said the doctor, raising an eyebrow.

"All right then. Greg," he said to his brother. "Pass me something, something ordinary."

Greg glanced around, rather unsure. Most of the room was already gold. Finally, he picked up a piece of writing paper off the desk and gave it to him. It changed instantly.

The doctor looked at the piece of paper for a long time, his expression unreadable.

"This happens to everything I touch with my bare skin. Everything I try to eat or drink turns to gold in my mouth. I haven't taken a sip of water since yesterday morning when this began. I need you to help me stop this."

The doctor finally looked up from the golden paper. It was several moments before he said anything. At last he spoke: "Do you know how this started?"

"Yes," said Midas and he told him about Aurum's visit.

"Well, the only thing I can tell you is to find this young man and beg him to take this away from you. Any other remedy is far beyond my capabilities. Gentlemen," he concluded with a tip of his hat. He started to turn towards the door.

"Wait," Midas exclaimed. "I don't even know if I'll be able to find this man. He goes from place to place, from party to party, so frequently that I may be dead before I track him down. He could be on the continent as we speak! Surely there is something you can do for me? Anything!"

The doctor turned back to look at him and Midas thought he saw pity in those solemn blue eyes.

"I'm a doctor, son, not a magician. If this Mr. Aurum can't help you, I'd seek out a minister or some kind of witch. It's going to take a miracle to save you."

As they listened to the old man descend the stairs, Midas turned to his brother. "Do as he says. Get the servants and have them go look for him. You and I'll do the same. If we haven't found him in three hours, we'll get a priest."

Greg left to do as he was told, casting one last look over his shoulder as he went. Midas stood alone in his room, re-envisioning the doctor's doubtful expression. He sighed, his shoulders slumping with the weight of his own carelessness. Perhaps it was time to accept his fate.

Outside his room he could hear somebody running up the stairs, the steps creaking loudly under such sudden abuse. Before he could wonder at the cause of it, the door burst open and Lillian rushed it, her skirt hitched up around her knees and her cheeks bright from exertion.

"What is it? What happened?" she demanded, striding over to him.

He gazed at her in astonishment. "You're home early," he said, too surprised by her sudden appearance to think of anything else.

"Midas, what's wrong?" Lillian asked, moving in close to him. "I saw the doctor leaving. Is it Greg? One of the staff? Is it the fever?"

"It's not fever, and everyone is fine," he assured her. Lillian had a deep fear of illness, especially scarlet fever. Years before it had carried off one of their little ones, a baby boy born three years before they'd had Marigold. The same fever had nearly killed Lillian as well, and she lived in fear of it's rearing it's ugly head in her life again. "Lil," he continued, know he'd have to tell her the truth, "It's me the doctor came to see."

She stared at him, wide eyed. Her face turned white, and he noticed the pulse racing in her throat. "Why?" she whispered.

"I made a mista—" Midas was cut off so suddenly that the word caught in his throat. As he had been speaking, Lillian had reached toward him and cupped the side of his face with her hand. For one instant, one fragment of a moment, Midas had felt the soft skin of her fingertips. And then that softness was gone. He could only watch as the golden frost swept up his wife's arm and coated her whole body in pure gold. It was over before he had time to blink. Lillian was frozen. Her face still had the same tender, worried expression as before. She didn't even seem to have felt it.

"Oh, God," Midas felt like he was choking. He stumbled back from her, barely able to stay upright. "Oh, God, no, _no!_ " He stared at his wife, and it felt like his insides were caving in, turning to dark water inside him. "Lil?" he whispered. He walked up to her and put his hands on either side of her face. "Lil?" There was no answer. His wife looked up at him, her eyes blank and lifeless. She was a perfect golden replica of what she had been, from individual strands of her hair to the tiny creases of her bottom lip. Midas had never felt such wretchedness as this. "No," he croaked, sudden tears constricting his throat. "No, Lil, no." He leaned forward and touched his forehead to her's and began to sob, feeling as though the life was leaving him.

"Daddy?"

Midas looked up, tears still streaming down his face. Marigold stood in the door, her little parasol still in her hand, her eyes huge behind her spectacles.

"Marigold," he croaked. "Darling, you need to leave. Go find your nanny." He couldn't have her close to him, it was too dangerous.

Marigold hesitated in the doorway, uncertain. Her eyes shifted from her father's distraught expression to the golden statue in front of him. Lillian was turned toward Midas, her back to their daughter, but she was unmistakable. "Mama? What's wrong with her?"

"Marigold—" But it was too late, Marigold dropped her parasol and bolted forward, running toward her parents. Midas took a quick step backwards and instinctively raised his hands to ward her off. Marigold looked at her mother for only a moment before turning toward Midas, her face crumpling with tears.

"Is Mama dead?" she wailed. Before he could answer, she flung herself at him, her little arms raised in front of her, trying to wrap them around his waist. She pushed his restraining hands out the way only to become a statue herself.


	8. Chapter 8

Eight

Midas hauled himself into the hackney cab. "Five hundred pounds to get me to Belgrave Square as fast as you can," he shouted.

The cab hurtled down the street like the horse was on fire, rushing headlong through traffic, missing carts and carriages and pedestrians by inches. Midas clutched the seat for dear life, praying that the cab wouldn't be smashed to splinters before he found Aurum.

At last, some forty five minutes later—too long, far too long—the cab rolled up to a massive brick building in Belgrave Square. The house was more lavish than stately, with six stories of windows winking at him as the bright afternoon sun glinted off their panes. Midas nearly fell out of the cab in his hurry to get inside.

"Oi!" called the cabman. "What about that fare?"

Midas ground his teeth together. He'd already wasted too much time. He glanced around and spotted a loose paving stone. He bent and pried it out of the ground, along with it's neighbor and handed the gold blocks to the cabby. "Stay here until I need you again."

"Sure thing, gov."

Midas took the front stairs two at a time and pounded on the front door. He was terrified to find out the Aurum wasn't at home, that he'd gone off to some country mansion in Devonshire or for a grand tour of the continent. Midas couldn't wait any longer. His wife and daughter might already be dead. Was it even possible to survive such a gruesome transformation?

After several minutes of pounding, the door finally opened. A butler glared through the gap, his large frame blocking the entrance.

"Can I help you?"

"I need to speak to Mr. Aurum. Please, it's a matter of great importance."

The butler gazed at him for a long moment. "I'm sorry sir, but my master is not able to receive visitors at present."

Midas shoved the door open, pushing the butler out of the way. "Aurum!" he shouted, running into the house. "Aurum, come down here!"

"Sir, you must leave—"

"Aurum!" Midas glanced around. He didn't know the house, but his best bet was upstairs somewhere. The butler moved to restrain him. He slipped away and began to run toward the stairs. His shouting had alerted the other servants. Footmen were swarming into the room and another man—probably a valet—was standing at the top of the stairs. Midas bolted forward, shouting for Aurum to show himself. The valet caught hold of him and the two struggled on the stairs. Midas tried not to touch the other man, he didn't want to murder him too. He could hear footsteps coming up behind him.

He caught sight of Silenus Beauregard staring at him, wide-eyed, over the banister at the top of the stairs. Silenus' black hair rumpled like he had just rolled out of bed. Next to him was a small, dark-haired woman in a pink gown, her eyes fixed on him.

"Sir, you must leave immediately," a voice hissed in his ear, probably one of the footmen. He grabbed Midas from behind, attempting to pull him back.

"Get off of me!" Midas shouted at him, lashing out behind him. "I must speak to Bacchus Aurum! I must see him! It's a matter of life and death!"

"Get him out of here," the butler growled. Four or five men had their hands on him, and still Midas fought back.

"Wait!" called a voice from the stairwell. The servants didn't seem to hear. "Wait! Let him go!" The hands on him hesitated, surprised by the order. Midas looked back. The woman stood just behind them on the landing, watching the scene with an unreadable expression.

"I'm terribly sorry, madam," huffed the butler. "He pushed his way in before I could stop him."

The woman ignored him. She was watching Midas. "Mr. Leeford," she said. Midas started at the sound of his name. "What business have you with my husband? Why are you disturbing my staff in this way?"

"I—" He struggled to catch his breath. He felt so miserable that he hardly knew how to answer her. "I need to speak to Mr. Aurum, ma'am. I have a problem that only he can resolve. It is of the utmost importance." He nearly broke down at the last sentence. "Please," he begged. "Please, just allow me to speak to him."

The lady—Mrs. Aurum—cocked her head to the side, appraising him. "Mr. Preston," she said.

"Yes, ma'am?" asked the butler.

"Mr. Leeford and I will be in the parlor. Send in some coffee for us. Appleton," she added, looking at the valet. "Wake Mr. Aurum."

* * *

Midas sat on the edge of his chair, his hands shaking. Across from him sat Mrs. Aurum while Silenus Beauregard swiveled back and forth on the piano stool across the room, his sharp little eyes missing nothing.

Midas had just finished explaining himself to Mrs. Aurum and again begged her to allow him an audience with her husband.

"He'll be down shortly," she said. Mrs. Aurum was very handsome. Midas had been too busy to notice in on the stairs, but up close he could hardly ignore it. She was quite small and fragile looking, sitting there in her pale pink dress as delicate as a peach blossom, her black hair elegantly coiled on her forehead. However, there was something in her features that gave him pause. Her black eyes were fathomless, her demeanor stern. She sat bolt upright, watching him over the rim of her cup like a bumble bee glaring out from under a flower petal.

The door behind them opened and Bacchus Aurum strolled into the room. "Bit early for visiting isn't it old chap?" he drawled.

Before Midas could respond, Mrs. Aurum placed her cup down with a loud clatter. "You have some explaining to do, sir," she told him.

Bacchus smiled and poured himself some coffee. He appeared just as he had before, brown curly hair, immaculate clothing, coy smile. Midas could only wonder at his courage. He would not have wanted to be at the receiving end of Mrs. Aurum's wrath.

"Indeed? And at the break of dawn?" He stifled a yawn.

"It's three in the afternoon, gov," said Beauregard from his corner.

"Bacchus," said his wife, "Mr. Leeford has come with an urgent request. You must take away this golden touch that you so irrationally bestowed upon him."

"Is that so?" Aurum raised an eyebrow at Midas.

"Yes, sir. Please, I beg it of you, my wife and daughter—"

"It can't be done."

Midas froze. "Wh-what?"

"Can't do it. You asked for the golden touch. Now you ask for the un-golden touch? What? So that every time you touch a gold pocket watch it loses its value? If you keep meddling in magic it'll only drive you mad. Better if I hadn't given you any at all."

"Yes!" Midas cried, his despair driving away courtesy. "Yes, it would have been better! Why did you have to intervene? Why couldn't you have just allowed me to live a natural life, without magic and gold and curses? If you had just left me alone my family would still be alive!"

Aurum gazed at him, his expression serious for once. "You blame me for these things? If my memory is correct, I didn't force you ask for the golden touch. I didn't coerce you into such a mad scheme as all that. I even asked you if that's what you truly wanted before I gave it to you. You could have asked for anything, Mr. Leeford. So don't blame this tragedy on me. It was your own selfish ambition that cursed you. It was your own greed that killed your family."

Midas hung his head. "You're right."

Mrs. Aurum turned to her husband, her hands folded in front of her. "Did you bother pointing out the possible outcomes of such a wish? Did you tell him that he would never be able to eat again? Or to touch another human being? Perhaps, if you'd been considerate enough to mention these obvious facts that Mr. Leeford, in his addled state of mind, had not been able to foresee himself, two innocent people might still be alive.'

Bacchus Aurum sipped his coffee contemplatively. "Would you like me to do so now, since I so irresponsibly omitted them earlier?" He grinned at her before solemnly clearing his throat. "Mr. Leeford, that wish is folly. Which is better? Gold or happiness? Which would you prefer, the golden touch or a slice of ham? The gold touch or a glass of wine? The gold touch or your wife and daughter?" He glanced over at his wife. "There, are you satisfied, madam?"

She glared at him..

"Please," Midas murmured. "Please, sir, I beg of you. If not for me, then for my family. They didn't do anything wrong. Leave me with the curse if you want, but bring them back to me. I'll do anything you want. I'll give you everything I have. I'll be your slave. Just bring them back." Tears were rolling down his face. Halfway through the speech he got down on his knees before Aurum, holding out his hands in beseechingly.

Mr. Aurum looked down at him, his expression unfathomable. There was a long pause, everyone watching him expectantly. At last, he held out his hand and beckoned Midas to stand to his feet.

"I can't bring somebody back from the dead," he said. Seeing the look on Midas' face, he continued. "Thankfully though, your wife and daughter aren't dead. They're just in an altered state of being. Or at least I certainly hope they are."

"Then they can be saved?"

"I think so. Never really gave it much thought before."

"How?"

"Yes, how?" asked Beauregard. "You have another mad scheme up your sleeve?"

Aurum ignored him. "Take your wife and daughter and anything else you want to change back into it's original form down to the Thames. Dunk them under the water and when you haul them back up they'll be good as new."

Midas stared at him, hope making his spirits soar. "That's all I need to do?"

"Shouldn't be too hard." Aurum gave him a sharp look. "If you yourself get in the Thames, the river will wash your magic away. The gold touch will leave you and never come back."

"Thank you," Midas breathed, too overcome for anything else. "Thank you so much, Mr. Aurum."

"Yes, yes. Well, you'd better see to it."

"Of course. Thank you so much." Midas hurried out the door, his heart pounding. The cab was still waiting for him out front.

"Wait!" someone called from behind. Silenus Beauregard was chasing after him. "I'm coming with you."

"You needn't bother yourself, sir," Midas said.

Beauregard ignored him and climbed into the cab. "I expect you'll need help moving the ladies. I doubt you want it spread around town that you can petrify people. Besides, Mr. Leeford, I want to make sure those dear ladies make it out all right. I do have such affection for them both."

Midas raised an eyebrow but didn't reply. He would be needing help moving the solid gold statues. With the promise of another large bonus, the cab once again rattled down the cobblestone streets.

Back at the townhouse, Bacchus Aurum settled back in his chair and picked up one of the newspapers off the table, pretending not to notice his wife's stare.

"Well, Ariadne," he said at last. "Are you happy now?"

"I am," she said. "You did the right thing. I'm proud of you."

"Oh, don't think too much into it." He glanced up at her as she moved a little behind his chair. "There's not much I wouldn't do to escape your vehemence."

"Is that why you did it?" she challenged. "Because I was nagging you?"

He turned the page of his newspaper, looking through the gossip sections. "I did it because the fool had learned his lesson. And because I knew that you'd never let it go until the whole bunch had their happily ever after." He turned to smirk at her but was caught off guard by the look on her face. She was smiling at him, her eyes shining. She looked shy, sweet, the shrewd intelligence softening into the romanticism that had fascinated him since the day he'd met her. This was the side of his wife that was kept secret from the rest of the world, this tender, radiant creature that only showed herself to him. She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek so suddenly that all he could do was gawk at her.

"I love you, Bacchus Aurum," she whispered before turning and walking out of the room, a lively little bounce in her step, leaving him staring after her.


	9. Chapter 9

NINE

Midas reached out and touched Lillian's cheek with the back of his knuckles, feeling her cold metal skin.

"Well, that's something isn't it?" Silenus muttered, walking into the room.

Midas shot him a look. "You knew what you'd see."

"But seeing it's a whole new thing." He patted Midas on the shoulder, careful to avoid any exposed skin. "Don't look so glum, Aurum said they'd be right as rain."

"He said he _thought_ they'd be right as rain. If this doesn't work . . ."

"I guess we'll figure that out when we come to it. It'll work though."

The door opened and Greg walked in, careful to shut it close behind him. "They're all gone," he said. He'd given the staff their bonuses and told them to take the rest of the day off. Midas didn't want any more witnesses than necessary.

"Is the cart out back?" he asked.

"Yes."

"All right then, let's go."

It was slow going. It took all three of them to lift gold Lillian, and she was so heavy that they had to put her down every couple of steps so they could rest. Midas doubted he and Greg would have been able to manage it by themselves and was glad Silenus had decided to come with them.

Slowyly, carefully, they edged her out of the room and toward the stairs. "The steps will be easier, I think," said Midas. "We can take a rest after each one." But as soon as they placed her on the first step, the statue over-balanced and slipped out of their grasp.

"No!" shouted Midas, trying to get a hold over his wife. She was too heavy and slipped out of his grasp, before careening down the stairs face first, her outstretched arm cracking the balustrade, and the rest of her breaking several of the steps. She slammed against the far wall at the bottom, her head denting the plaster. They all stood frozen, afraid to move. Then Midas ran to his wife, trying to pick her up.

"Oh, God have mercy."

They managed to get her upright again, and brushed to plaster dust off her face. Miraculously, she didn't have a scratch on her.

"Let's hope she stays this intact once we change her back," Greg muttered.

It took forty-five minutes to get her out to the cart they'd borrowed from Aurum, the hardest part being lifting her up into the back of it. It took everything they had in them and several failed attempts before they got her in there. Finally, Lillian laid in the bottom of the cart, her eyes as sad as ever. The men collapsed, trying to catch their breath. Midas wiped the sweat off his brow with his shirt-sleeve, wincing as the spun-gold scratched his forehead.

"I'm going to be hurting tomorrow," huffed Silenus, sprawling out on the floor of the cart, his legs swinging off the end.

"I'm going to be hurting for weeks," said Greg.

Midas didn't reply. He covered up his wife with a couple old blankets, pausing before he covered her face. She looked up at him sorrowfully, like she pitied him for his current plight. It made his stomach twist inside. He didn't deserve her compassion. He'd allowed this to happen to her. He pulled the blanket up over her face.

"It's time to get Marigold," he said.

Carrying a golden child was easier than carrying a golden woman. Marigold was still heavy, but after her mother it seemed like the easiest thing in the world. They were more careful on the stairs this time and in twenty minutes she was out in the cart with Lillian, blanket covering her.

It was evening now. They had to get to the Thames soon or else meet up with a night watchman. With two golden statues hidden in a rickety old cart, such an encounter would not go well for them. The three men clambered into the cart and started down for the river, taking the backroads as often as they could. Midas was familiar with most of the roads surrounding his own neighborhood but after that he had to rely on Silenus' help. Mr. Beauregard had a surprising amount of knowledge about the crooked alleyways of the London slums for a gentleman who spent most of his time out in Yorkshire countryside. When Greg asked him how he could know so much, he'd just smirked.

"Plenty of cheap drinks in this part of town. Plenty of wild women too."

Midas rolled his eyes.

The twisted streets took on a sinister turn. The the tops of the tenements leaned towards each other, casting a gloom over the cobblestones below. Strange characters watched them from the shadows, hollow eyes following the old cart as it clattered down the street. Steam rose from storm drains and smoke from the odd trash heap and the closer they came to the Thames the worse the world seemed to smell.

"I don't like this area," Midas muttered, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

"We'll pass through it soon enough," Silenus replied. "There's a quiet place about an hour away. No one to bother us there. We can take another route back into town."

Midas screwed up his mouth but kept quiet. If worse came to worse, he figured that he'd be able to turn any attackers into statues.

The neighborhoods became worse before they became better, but Silenus kept up a stream of cheerful chatter and even waved at a few of the passerby, especially the women, who returned the gesture, their bright lips pulling back over their teeth in fearsome smiles.

Silenus had spoken truly. An hour later, the tenements had been replaced by trees. The cobblestone street had turned to dirt some distance back, and the wagon would occasionally fall into such ruts that the brothers would have to push from behind as Silenus held the reigns.

They could see the Thames through the trees, but the embankments were too steep here. Midas was impatient to test the cure, but even he knew the dangers of such folly. He had no intention of saving his family only to have them swept away by the rushing river. They continued down the road until at long last, they found a place where the river swept up onto a thin strip of beach.

"Here we are," said Silenus, hopping down from the cart.

"Thank God," said Midas. They'd driven as close to the water as they could, but they'd still have to haul the statues a good twenty feet or so. They pulled them out of the cart, first Lillian, then Marigold. They placed them on the bank of the river, where they stood silent and golden, the last rays of the setting sun glittering off of them.

"You'd better go first, Midas," said Greg. "No use changing them back if there's still danger."

Midas nodded, his stomach twisting in his gut. This was the moment. Would Aurum be right? Or had he just sent them on a wild goose chase?

He walked to the edge of the river. The Thames was lovely out here, so different from the ugly, abused river that swirled under the bridges in town. There were trees on the opposite bank and no houses in sight. He wondered what would happen if Aurum was wrong. Would the entire river change to gold just like the bowl of shaving water had? Or would it just be the area about his feet, locking him into place? Time to find out.

He drew in a deep breath and stepped into the river, feeling the current tug at his ankles. The water was cold. Midas looked down at it, watching as it rushed past him to lap at the shore. He could see his golden boots through the shallow water, but that was it. No golden frost.

Midas staggered with relief. It had worked. He stepped deeper into the water, splashing through it until it was past his knees, his waist, his chest. He ducked under the surface, holding his breath as the cold water closed over his head. He floated like that for several long moments, feeling the beautiful water pressing in around him. Finally he broke through the surface again. He took a deep breath and started for shore. The current had pulled him several yards downstream from the others. He grinned at them, feeling the water stream down his face.

"It worked!" said Greg.

"I think so," replied Midas, breathlessly.

"It did," said Silenus, pointing at him. "Your clothes are back to normal."

Midas looked down at himself. It was true. His clothes were sopping wet, but they were cloth again, his boots their original leather. Just to be safe, he bent and picked up one of the loose stones off the beach. It stayed a stone in his hand, smooth and grey. He smiled.

"Hurry, let's get them out there."

He pulled Marigold out himself, while the others brought Lillian. They didn't go as far as he had, for fear that the shock of awaking under water would make them thrash too much and allow the river to sweep them away. They took them out to waist level, and, with a quick glance at each other, dunked the golden women beneath the waves, baptizing them in the Thames.

Midas had been terrified that this wouldn't work, that when the gold wore away, he'd be pulling a dead little girl out of the water. He fears were uncalled for. As soon as she was fully submerged, he felt Marigold struggle, her hard skin turning to human flesh once more. He pulled her up out of the water, gasping and choking. Across from them, the others were doing to same for Lillian. A sob rose up in his chest when he saw them, alive and unharmed. He pulled Marigold up into his arms, pressing her against him. She wrapped her little arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder.

"Don't cry, Daddy," she whispered. She coughed again, spitting up some more river water.

"Good God, what are you doing? Get off of me!" _Crack!_

Midas looked over at the others. The men had been trying to haul Lillian toward the shore but the woman was struggling, confused and terrified. Her eyes were wild and she didn't seem to recognize her saviors. She floundered in the water, trying to get away from them. She'd slapped Beauregard across the face when he'd attempted to keep her from going deeper into the river.

"Lil!" Midas shouted, moving toward her. "Lillian!"

She caught sight of him. "Midas! Midas help!"

"It's all right, darling. They aren't trying to hurt you." He'd reached her now and wrapped one of his arms around her, pulling her against him. She clung to him as tightly as their daughter. She was shaking, her hair was a mess and she smelled like the river. Midas thought that she'd never looked so beautiful. He murmured soothing things into her hair, trying to calm her down. In a few moments she'd regained some of her composure and became a little more like herself.

"Midas? What's going on?"

"I'll explain later," he said. "First, let's get you both back to shore."


	10. Chapter 10

TEN

"You're doing wonderfully, Miss Marigold," said the groom.

Marigold didn't reply. She was frowning in concentration, holding on tightly to the reigns. Her yellow curls bounced and blew in the wind as the spotted pony trotted around the ring. The groom, Simon, stood in the middle of the ring, holding the lead rope and occasionally swatting the little horse with the whip to keep him at a trot. Every time she rounded the circle she would grin over at Midas where he stood leaning against the fence.

It was a year after the gold touch debacle and now the entire thing seemed like nothing more than a bad dream. He'd brought his wife and daughter home that night and put them to bed. They'd been so cold and exhausted that they had barely seemed to notice that the house had changed to gold. The next morning had brought questions and a severe scolding from his wife. Midas had taken it as well as he could, knowing that he deserved it. Seeing him so contrite about what he'd done, Lillian couldn't stay angry with him for long.

Marigold hadn't been angry at all. She spent the rest of that day holding onto her father and wandering about the house, staring at the gold furniture in wonder. Midas himself had lost all enthusiasm for his golden belongings. The horror of losing his family had tainted the splendor. He and his wife soon decided that it would be best to leave started looking for homes out in the countryside and Lillian picked out a large house in Derbyshire. Within a fortnight they had sold their home and belongings and moved there. The house was much larger than their one in town but it was more comfortable than stately. Midas loved it. The first thing they did after moving in was finding a pony for Marigold. She'd named him Freckles and rode him every day.

It was another fifteen minutes before the lesson ended. Marigold hopped down from her pony and walked back to the house with her father. Midas found his wife sitting in her parlor reading one of her books—Pride and Prejudice again. He smiled. When they'd begun house hunting, she'd immediately suggested they settle in Derbyshire and he'd guessed why.

"Have they gotten to Pemberley yet?" he asked.

She looked a little sheepish. "Not yet. Midas, I did not choose this house because it reminded me of Mr. Darcy."

"Of course not, dear." He walked across the room and knelt next to the cradle by her chair. "And how is my little man today?" he asked, wiggling his fingers above the little face looking up at him.

"Waiting for you to come and rescue him," said Lillian as Midas scooped up the baby. He was a little over a month old with a full head of black hair., Midas walked around the room with him, bouncing him in his arms and talking to him. Marigold flounced down next to her mother's chair and began playing with her dolls. Lillian watched her family, her heart full. Midas had changed since the gold touch, and it had nothing to do with their new money. He was happier now, more cheerful and relaxed. He played with his children more and spent more time at home. He gotten a job at the local bank, more from the desire to stay occupied than financial need. Soon after being hired he'd been promoted to manager and expected to be made a director as soon as a position became open. He wasn't overly concerned about it though, not like he had been.

This new life was good for them all. Country living suited Lillian and the children and gave Midas freedom from the crunch of industrial life. Plus, thanks to the gold touch, they were now richer than they'd ever dreamed of being. Not even Midas could have fathomed how much the gold touch would give him.

They had a guest for dinner that evening. Ms. Iris Haring was coming up to stay with the Leefords for a few weeks. Gregory was on summer leave from college and had arrived a few days before. The two of them couldn't bear to be separated for long, and instead of cutting Greg's time with them short, Midas and Lillian had extended an invitation to his sweetheart.

Ms Haring was a sweet, quiet young woman about twenty years old, four years younger than Greg. Lillian was trying her best to help her feel at ease with them, aware of how shy she was. It was obvious how much the two young people cared for each other. They spent every waking minute in each other's presence, taking long walks out in the countryside and whispering to each other by the fire at night. Lillian fully expected them to be married by New Years.

Midas was sitting at the far end of the table from her, watching the lovers with an amused look on his face. After a while he turned and winked at her. She blushed and cast a glance toward her daughter, hoping she hadn't witnessed it. Marigold hadn't been paying attention. She was watching Ms. Haring closely and smiling every time the young lady caught her eye. She was dying to show their visitor her new flower beds, but Lillian had reminded her before dinner that children should be seen and not heard.

After dinner they went into the drawing room. Marigold asked her mother to play something on their new piano. At first she declined, but the others urged her until she accepted, rolling her eyes as she went. She sat down at the piano and began to play a lively tune. The others got up and danced, Midas and Marigold on one side and Greg and Iris on the other. Lillian smiled at them all, her fingers flying across the keys.

Halfway through the third reel, the butler came in carrying a note on a tray. Lillian paused the song—to the dismay of the dancers—and picked up the note. The seal was dark, purplish-red wax with a cluster of grapes as a sigil. She opened the letter.

"Who's it from?" asked Midas.

She glanced up from the note and gave him a rueful look. "Mr. Beauregard."

"Good God," he exclaimed. "Are we never to get any peace?"

"You always were too hard on him, my love." She continued reading the letter. "Apparently he's bound for America to 'see what those Yanks have been up to since we've been gone.' I'm assuming he means since the revolution."

"He does seem like one to use the royal 'we'," Greg mused. He and Iris had gone to sit together in the corner. They were seated quite close together and Lillian raised an eyebrow at him. He blushed at being caught and immediately made the gap between them a little wider.

"Is Mr. Beauregard going to stay in America?" asked Marigold. She seemed upset by the idea.

"I don't think so. He says that he's just going there to, as he puts it, 'celebrate the joys of life' and that he—" Lillian stuttered, nearly choking as she read the next sentence.

"What is it, Mama?"

Lillian raised her eyes to Midas'. He cocked an eyebrow.

"What's the matter, Lil?"

"He says that once he's back on English soil, he plans to seek us out first thing. He says that with his house in Yorkshire and ours in Derbyshire—"

"How the devil did he find out where we live?"

"That we'll practically be neighbors. And that he plans on spending at least half his time with his 'dear Leefords' as he calls us."

"Dear God," Midas muttered.

"And here we thought the curse was ended," Greg said.

Lillian glared at them. "He helped you in your time of need."

Midas scoffed. "He was the reason we were _in_ our time of need."

"Well, just the same. As long as there are no wishes involved," Lillian shot Midas a withering look, "I'll be very happy to see him." Lillian folded the note and put it away before turning back to the piano. She started another song and the dancing resumed. Before long they were laughing again, all irritation forgotten. Lillian considered them. Midas had picked Marigold up and was twirling her around, making her squeal. His face was brighter than it used to be, more hopeful. They had a new little one sleeping upstairs in the nursery, and Greg was soon to be married and starting a family of his own. If they'd driven Silenus off that day Marigold found him under the shrubs, then who knows what her life would look like now. Midas might still be chained to his desk in that gloomy bank office, slaving away. Greg would never have left his laboratory long enough to meet Iris. They'd still live in London with its bad air and smog. Lillian glanced at the letter again, folded on top of the piano. It wasn't the easiest thing in the world, having visitors who overstayed their welcome, but when the rewards were this good, then perhaps it was not quite so tiresome after all.

 _End._

 _Thank you again, Brian, for suggesting this story and having patience with me when stuff would come up and it took me forever to update._ — _Emma Foxglove_


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